


Mornāndorē, Dark Lands

by Arvalier, Fadesintothewest



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, TRSB2020, Violence, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26210974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arvalier/pseuds/Arvalier, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fadesintothewest/pseuds/Fadesintothewest
Summary: Maglor travels to the Woodland realm. The darkness has one more task for him to tend to. There he meets ghosts of his past and perhaps, the hope for his future.
Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf/Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arvalier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arvalier/gifts).



> I wrote this story for TRSB 2020 based on Arvalier's art featuring Legolas and Maglor. Arvalier is the artist of the portrait of our protagonists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mornā (dark) ndorē (land), primitive elvish

The former Greenwood still held magic and secrets, those things that were considered dark and fey. But truly such considerations were formed from ignorance, not a knowledge of the Wood itself, and yet the Silvans kept to themselves, a lesson learned from the losses they incurred embroiling themselves too centrally in the Wars of the Eldar. Wood elves did not bother with the hierarchies of their cousins that journied. They were content to wander under the great canopies of their beloved Wood, but also fierce protectors of it, for the Wood and its creatures were their kin. The wood elves were bound to the Wood by kinship with oak, with evergreen, with deer, with squirrel, and the many living things woven into the Song of the Wood. Among those counted as Silvan were the descendants of Denethor, who was the last elf those once known as Green Elves took as king, until Oropher. These people formerly called Laiquendi that had crossed the Misty Mountains were part of the clans that made up the Silvan, along those who had followed Oromë’s horn but did not cross the Mountains and settled by the river Anduin. Also counted as Silvan were those that did not heed the call of the horn, which some referred to as the Avari, refusers.

All these groups were now gathered as the people of the Greenwood, People of the Wood. The distinctions outsiders had for these groups mattered little for the wood elves. Indeed, the term Avari was not used amongst them and the wood elves considered it a slur used by their haughtier cousins. Legolas’ mother was descended from these elves that had not heeded the call, too great was their love for the forests. Feleth was her name, and like her name suggested, she was fair minded, a good partner to Thranduil. It was through her that Legolas was kin to the Noldor, for Feleth was a descendant of Morwë, second to awaken at the lake of Cuiviénen, where the elves first awoke. Thus he was counted as one of the Tatyar, the Second Clan, children of Tata, from which Finwë himself was descended. The Tatyar, the Second Clan that remained in middle earth had dealings with the Noldor in the early days. Lindirë, wife of Fingon, and mother to Gil-Galad, was of the Tatyar, as was Eöl, husband of Aredhel, though the latter was not remembered fondly for he long ago lost the way. Both, though, had the skill and might of the Tatyar that remained in Middle Earth. Lindirë and Eöl were but some of the ancestors of the Silvans that made it into the tomes kept by the Noldor of history in Middle Earth.

Maglor Feanorion knew these stories well, had come to know the Silvans throughout his time of exile and the moments he emerged from the prison of his mindscape. From the first age after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears he and Maedhros had retreated into Green Elf lands. In Maglor’s heart there stirred a sense of duty for the young Oropher he had known long ago, in the early years of the First Age. In the Second Age Maglor made his way to Oropher and met him amongst the Silvan that had taken him as King. Maglor had fought with them at the Battle of Dagorlad, in service to Gil-Galad, his nephew and Elrond, his stepson. In this battle, Maglor saved Thranduil, for Oropher’s son took a terrible injury defending his father.

But for his distrust of the Feanorian influence Oropher perceived in Gil-Galad, Oropher would not have been so unwilling to heed Noldorin battle plans. Alas, the Doom still claimed its victims; yet Maglor would not let it have Thranduil for he foresaw that from Thranduil the Doom of the Noldor might be truly vanquished. Thus it is from this web of history and time that Maglor came to the Greenwood and there met Legolas, the source of that hope, and a meeting that would begin another journey West for Maglor.

)()()()()(

Legolas laughed, his face contorting into brilliance: eyes shining, his body reverberating with the deep, sonorous tenor of his voice.

Alwedeth watched her uncle’s face, giggling in response, her tiny hands grasping Legolas’ golden hair.

“Fortune smiles on you,” Legolas shared with his niece, her name prophetic. Turning to the figure of an elf observing them, Legolas quipped, “Enith, I cannot fathom how my brother managed to have anything to do with this little one.” Legolas tickled the young girl, causing her to giggle and contort in his arms.

“Do you accuse me of infidelity?” Enith joked with her sibling by marriage..

Legolas was always outrageous. “That must be it. Tell me dear lady who was the lucky elf?”

“Scoundrel!” Enith screamed, laughing uncontrollably. “I will tell your brother, you know!”

“And surely he’ll have my head! ‘Back to the east bite with you!’ he’ll tell me.” Pouting in Enith’s direction, Legolas added, “Surely I deserve reprieve!”

Enith’s face softened. “You’ve just returned. Orondil will not send you back.”

“He just might,” Legolas quipped. “Did he not put himself on the easiest of duties on the Forest Road?”

Enith rolled her eyes. “Well you know as captain of your father’s armies, Orondil must serve in all capacities. Trust me. I had to live with his complaining, anticipating his tour on the Forest Road. You aren’t so different.”

Legolas set Alwedeth down who laughed and talked while the adults exchanged words, sending her to her mother. “On with you little one,” Legolas shooed the little one away.

“You must be exhausted,” Enith observed, for Legolas always chose to spend time with his niece.

Legolas’ countenance grew serious, but being mindful of Alwedeth, did not reveal more than he needed. “I am. The patrols are hard.”

“So I’ve heard,” Enith replied. “I do not look forward to my return to those parts.”

“Nor do I,” Legolas admitted. “Surely you can delay your return?”

“You know I cannot.”

“I understand,” Legolas sighed, considering that there was not favoritism in the woodland realm. Thranduil’s family was not exempt from protecting their home. While Thranduil was king he was still a warrior, though his role saw him more at home than out on patrol. His advisors were drawn from different families of the Wood, all of them Silvan. This group was responsible for the governance of the Wood, though the ancient Silvan structures of decision making that dealt with the day-to-day and ceremonial aspects of life operated as a parallel structure. From Enith’s family line came the important spiritual leaders of the Silvan Clans; regardless of what might appear as rank of importance, all were responsible with the protection of the wood. There were no exceptions. Such was life living so close to evil and containing it there for so long.

“Find rest,” Enith urged Legolas. “This little one must also rest,” Enith spoke to Alwedeth who was busy chasing one of the fireflies that made their way down into the rooms in the cavernous keep.

Alwedeth complained when her mother picked her up. “I am not tired!”

“Of course not, but we must leave. Your uncle is.”

Alwedeth looked up at Legolas, informing him, very seriously, “You do look terrible.”

Legolas and Enith broke out laughing. To the child, Legolas said, between chuckles, “Aye, you observe correctly.”

Legolas was tired, weary. He could feel the weight of darkness in his bones, but a few nights of sleep in the boughs of the Wood, under the stars, without fear, would fill him with the strength he needed! But in this moment, Legolas needed to report to his father, before he could seek the respite he so longed for.

“Rest well Legolas,” Enith offered, whisking her daughter away who blew kisses at Legolas as she was carried out the room and out of the caves to the forest outside.

Legolas leaned back into the heal of his boots. He needed to find the energy to propel himself to his next meeting, before he could find peace underneath his beloved trees outside. Most of the elves still lived amongst the trees of the forest just outside the Elven King’s Halls, but the King’s throne room and its adjoining studies were within. There were many rooms, smaller caves in the cave system that were used as storage, and for defense when the elves needed to secure away within.

From the upper rooms that were filled with light from fissures in the rock above, Legolas descended into the large throne room that sat in a grand cave carved by the river that ran within it. The dais was empty. He walked the well-worn, familiar path to the study, though when he was young, Alwedeth’s age, Legolas would sneak into the caves and into his father’s study.

“Kherū Legolas,” a guard stationed at the entrance to Thranduil’s study greeted the young elf, using the ancient honorific of lord the Silvan used for the heirs of Thranduil.

“Well met Angren,” Legolas formally greeted the guard. “I have a report for the Tārō,” Legolas continued, using the old elvish title for king, the wood elves used. Though it was said outside of the Wood that the Silvan tongue was no longer used, it was simply not used for outsiders. The Wood elves were not interested in correcting outsiders misperceptions.

Angren smiled, adding, his tone informal and warm, “Your father is anxious to greet you.”

Legolas paused and placed a hand upon Angren’s shoulder, silently thanking him for letting Legolas know that Thranduil was impatient to see his son and thus in a lighter mood.

The stone doors swung quietly open in front of Legolas with the same magic used to open and close the doors to the cavernous keep. These stones were well acquainted with the Wood elves and did their bidding when asked, but much care and work over generations was needed for the stone to respond so.

Nemir, Thranduil’s most trusted advisor and brother of Feleth, Thranduil’s spouse, looked up, his eyes catching the light of the bioluminescent creatures that carpeted the ceiling with light. Channels were carved into the caves above and mirror like crystals placed carefully within to bend light into the study. This light was further refracted by glass globes filled with water. The same magic that moved the stone was used to brighten the bioluminescent lights and dim them, the creatures happy to respond and serve the Wood. 

In the center of this smaller cave hung a great chandelier made of antlers alight with candles. Thranduil stood beneath it, sheathed in its light. His hair seemed alight. Legolas was filled with love, seeing his father’s figure, so beautiful and strong. It filled him with an assuredness that all was well.

“Uncle,” Legolas greeted Nemir. “Father,” he added tenderly.

Thranduil spun around and held his arms out, a smile forming on his striking face. “Legolas!”

Legolas went to his father and allowed himself to be gathered into his father’s arms. His face to fall into the crook of his fathers’ neck and rest there. The smell of Thranduil was comforting, the sound of his father’s heart beat soothing Legolas’ weary soul. Thranduil was healing his son, taking some of the weight away.

“The darkness grows,” Thranduil spoke, moving back to observe his son. “It is heavy in you.”

“Aye,” Legolas agreed. “I do not bring good tidings from the South.” The elves of the Wood called their tours, the time, in dark country, _vi mornāndorē_ , an older form of elvish speech.

Nemir motioned for Legolas to move to the elaborate replica of the territory of Dol Guldur. The hills of Amon Lanc stood high, a reminder to the older elves that they had once dwelt there. Nemir placed a reassuring hand on Legolas’ shoulder. “We’ve read your report. We only a few questions now and will call you back once your rested.”

Legolas’ tension eased. He was relieved he wouldn’t have to spend the hours he needed to give the full report of the last skirmishes and losses.

“Exactly where were we pushed back to,” Thranduil asked.

“As far back to the Woodmen’s town,” Legolas indicated on the map. “We were cut off at the Narrows if not for Benevor and his men who managed to cut a line for us.”

“Where is the line now?” Nemir asked.

“We regained some ground and pushed back the orcs and spiders to Rhosgobel, though Radagast is still not found.” Looking at Thranduil, Legolas added, “The people of Woodmen’s town are not so numerous they can hold Dol Guldur’s borders from advancing north.”

“Indeed,” Thranduil replied. “Do we urge them to move North near us or keep their settlements so close to danger?”

“They are invaluable allies,” Nemir shared, “and brave.”

“To have a town we can replenish our supplies and seek mannish medical treatment is advantageous. They keep an ever vigilant eye on those borders. We do well to help them stay,” Legolas replied. “I do not think we could convince them to move, regardless of our desires,” he added.

“We will establish a larger unit to patrol the region,” Thranduil answered. “You will need to arrange this with Benevor.”

Legolas shook his head affirmatively. “They will also appreciate our help building their homes in the trees higher up. Their platforms are too accessible from the ground. In case of fire, we should also teach them techniques of building moveable bridges in the canopies.”

“See it done,” Thranduil replied. “I will send word of thanks to Benevor.” Narrowing his eyes, Thranduil added, “Once rested I want to know why your company was so far south into enemy territory. I know you would not do this without good reason.” Thranduil knew Legolas would not dare something unwise, but the memories of Feleth’s death in those lands made Thranduil particularly protective of his youngest.

“Thank you father, I would not needlessly go so far, as you know.”

Thranduil’s face softened. “Go rest Legolas. We will speak on this later.”

Legolas breathed in deeply. “I take my leave. If you need me I will be up in the arms of a tree, but first I will allow my weary body to rest in the bathes.”

“ A sound plan,” Nemir remarked.

“Go,” Thranduil ordered Legolas.

Legolas took his leave and found the rocky climbing path up a series of narrow tunnels that led to natural springs that the elves had shaped into baths. Legolas chose the hotter pools. The rich minerals in the water were just what his aching body needed. He stripped his gear, hanging it on the roots of trees that came down from the ceiling. Here too the caverns were lit by a bioluminescence.

Legolas carefully submerged himself, relaxing into the hot water that steamed around him. Slowly he went under and meditated until he could no longer tolerate the heat. Emerging from the water, Legolas moved over to one of the cooler pools and found, always in supply, a wash for his body and hair made from roots and bark. After washing Legolas emerged and found oils that suited his tired mood and rubbed it into his sore muscles and combed it through his hair. He did quick work of it and found a clean tunic to slip into. Silvan life was communal. The younger elves not away on patrols duties including cleaning the used gear of those scouts returning from posts, making sure the baths were supplied with all that was needed. On his way out, Legolas grabbed freshly roasted chestnuts left in baskets. Lucky for him, the way out from this level required no work as his way from below did. Within minutes he was out of the caves and into the forest.

Legolas’ dwelling was on the hill that held the caves in its womb. He climbed a series of rope stairs that hung down the cliff side. On sure footing, upon the hill Legolas made his way through the dense thicket of trees, greeting each tree as he went. He arrived at his home and placed a greeting hand upon the trunk. A bit more of woodland magic was at work. The tree moved its great branches so that stairs that encircled the tree descended. Sometimes if the tree was feeling amused it would drop a rope, but the tree knew her friend well so she dropped the stairs for Legolas.

If you could translate tree speech, it might go something like this: a warm feeling growing inside, traveling to tickle the tips of your fingers. The currents of language, if it can be called that, forms images, but not from elf or man eyes, but from the perspective of the tree. Mottled hues of brown and warmth and the feeling of a furry coat, a squirrel, the whisper of an intimate, small wind, and light steps, a bird. Legolas could tell the bird by the sensation of wind, for each bird had its own intimate signature. From the roots the tree was connected to its kin and if an elf concentrated deeply, in this case Legolas, he could fathom the health of the wood, receive tidings from the trees and grasses beyond. But these tidings were not like the content of elf speech but of the sensations of sun and warmth, cold and snow, or darkness and a suffocation, a burning. The manner of communication was also Song with a heartbeat: the peculiar thrum of oak, of cedar, of birch, the infinitesimal drumming of grasses and the reaching whispers of blooming flowers.

The greeting tree, the great oak of Legolas, knew her companion well. His song was dimmed, a darkness straining his notes. She perceived his journey through her roots and had felt his peculiar song come and go. But Legolas was yet young and marveled at the mystery of the world he lived in. A deep restful sleep, a filling meal, and time with his kin would find him jovial again, light of spirit, and like a leaf in the wind, playful, feet skimming the earth, defying gravity. That was her Legolas. She loved to feel him smile, to hear his laughter, that drumbeat of the two-legged that was so uniquely laughter. Yew was more circumscribed in his emotions, for he had many responsibilities and needed to store his energy for he was evergreen, unlike oak who would sleep through the winter. Yew was happy for birch and oak to chatter away and keep each other company. He wondered if they became familiar with the deep quiet and weight of winter whether they would want to sleep through it? Yew was pleased that Legolas was back amongst his branches. The young elf was tired. The cost of those Black lands hanging on Legolas like a damp fog in a valley that refuses to lift. Yew would make sure to close his branches around the sleeping form of Legolas. While Yew was poisonous to men, elves were not affected by the Yew. In this way, the Yew was seen as a tree of the elves, for men were not happy to have it near, it poisoned many of their livestock. 

Legolas climbed into his home that was held in the mighty branches of evergreens and great oaks that grew close together. It was a beautiful space, some rooms were built like a delicate fairy home in the trees and other areas were simple outdoor talans, or platforms. Silvan homes were not as grand as some of the Ghaladrim architecture in Lothlorien, but even there, the simplicity of Silvan life still lived. Legolas climbed to a platform that allowed him to view the sky above. From storage he pulled a sleeping pad, rolling it out onto the platform. Legolas feel on his bed. “Finally,” he murmured to himself, content to be able to sleep without worry and in the healthy spirit of the wood around him.


	2. The Wanderers

A wandering company of elves had come on the Elf-path, through the Forest Gate. Before that they had rested in Imladris, guests of Elrond, if such could be said of Elrond’s kin. This company was unique for they were made up of those elves that remained of Houses of the Noldor that survived the First and Second Ages, those that did not cross the sea and those that could not cross the sea and take the Straight Road. For most of these wandering elves, their hearts, while content in what they still called Endórë in their exilic tongue, once banned long ago, had a longing for journey, and so they walked. This Middle Earth held their attention yet, even in the third age of the accounting of time. They knew a darkness dwelt in it and that they would fight one last time; some under the very boughs of the trees they found themselves under. Perhaps they would return to the West as one Reborn. They did not know how that story would unfold, not yet.

They sought entry into Thranduil’s realm, the Great Greenwood, now turned dark and called Mirkwood. These elves held memory of the Greenwood, of the great forest that Oropher had settled in, amongst the Silvan. The wandering company coming to Thranduil’s realm was not often, and though these wandering elves were not unfamiliar to these lands, they were unfamiliar to this new generation of Woodland guards that greeted the company on the Forest Road.

The scouts of the woodland realm glanced wearily at their cousins. Though many said the wood elves were fey and dark, that regard was incorrect, for these tall folk were fey and dark, indeed; but like all elves they also delighted in the life around them. Capricious, perhaps, and most certainly aloof, for unlike the wood elves, these wandering elves were closing their time in Middle Earth.

The wandering company wore cloaks, their hoods drawn over their faces, hiding the bright light of the two trees from the outside world, for it was a disconcerting sight for those young of the Wood, unused to these companies crossing their lands. But the older Wood elves remembered the Noldor of old, the mighty warriors from the West that crossed the seas and ice with an arrogance to reclaim that they had long left behind.

Orondil, Thanduil’s eldest, knew them well. This was the company of Gildor, an elf who had long ago pledged himself to Finrod in the First age. Gildor’s parents had come with Fingolfin’s host across the ice. Gildor was accounted in the generation of Noldor born in Middle Earth, but he was of age during the Nírnaeth Arnoediad and while Orodreth did not send a company to fight in this battle, Gildor was one of Gwindor’s company who departed from Nargathrond to fight in the truly last battle of the Noldor, for the War of Wrath was a bitter betrayal to those Noldor who had taken Morgoth on alone. This, at least, Orondil had learned in the lore he learned of the prior ages.

Gildor, for himself, longed to see Thranduil’s cavernous keep, if only to remember the might of Nargathrond. These wandering companies of elves were welcome in Elrond’s hidden valley, while others found favor with the Lady Galadriel, but Gildor had not dared cross Thranduil’s borders since the loss of his father Oropher in the War of the Last Alliance.

Exactly why was unclear to Orondil, but his father, the King of the Wood, never spoke fondly of Gildor. “Why do you seek entry.” Orondil asked Gildor directly.

Gildor bowed his head, recognizing Thranduil’s eldest. “We come to find rest under your trees.”

“You have not sought rest under our trees for many a year,” Orondil responded.

Gildor smiled, biting his tongue. He desired to chastise Orondil as child, but instead he laughed, for he found the conversation absurd. It was soft and lyrical but also potent in that way the Noldor song of voice was clear and stone like. “Forgive me,” Gildor spoke, “time gets away from us as we wander.”

Orondil was no fool. He replied, “And yet time has also been used by you. I see you are comfortable in mixed company.” These Noldor were strange. Orondil was studied. He recognized how the placement of a cloak, the shape of pins, were entirely vestiges of the Houses they pledged themselves to long ago. Upon the visible parts of their leather armour were tooled the incantations unique to each house and the symbols of the houses. Here, the Star of Fëanor, there the star of Fingolfin. On Gildor’s vambraces was tooled the harp of Finrod. It was odd to Orondil that after this much time, such allegiances still mattered. For the wood elves, the heraldry was not of house, but of station, and of the wood.

Gildor laughed at this. “Indeed, the old houses of the Noldor are all accounted for amongst us. It is strange to have those once loyal to the kings of yesteryear now pledged to one another.” Gildor glanced to the company behind him, their faces shadowed by their hoods. “But it is also a penance and so we wander and time passes, though time was not a mistress we took willingly.”

“Was not?” Orondil queried, looking over the taller figures of the visitors. Orondil’s hair was dark like his mothers. He wore it in one long plait. He wore no cape for such a thing amongst the trees was a hindrance. With his bow at his side and his short swords tucked tightly on his back, Orondil stood proudly, a captain of the Wood, liegeman to his father. 

Gildor’s face grew serious. “I bring word and warning.”

Orondil’s face grew dark, so much for the rest they sought.

The tone of Gildor’s voice grew ominous and the light in his eyes grew brighter. Indeed his whole being radiated with the light of his fëa, a different hue than that of the wood elves. Theirs was a muted tone of greens and starlight, not the brash light of the two trees. “I cannot say to you what we can only speak to your King,” Gildor continued.

“You ask me to earn my King’s ire,” Orondil challenged Gildor.

“I do,” Gildor acknowledged.

“I cannot allow it,” Orondil informed them. “My King’s orders are to allow no stranger to cross this border.”

Gildor frowned. “We are not strangers.”

A taller elf behind him moved forward. Orondil watched him uncomfortably. This elf had an aura about them that Orondil could not make sense of. This elf’s song was muted and shifted, unwilling to be heard, not like the other Noldor whose songs were clear and echoing like horns in a mountain.

From beneath the hood the elf spoke, repeating Gildor’s words: “We are not strangers,” the deep voice echoed in the Wood with power. The wood elves stood back. This voice was old and weary, yet power reverberated in its soft notes, for this elf did not need volume for power to shimmer with every word. The elf brought his hood down. Orondil gasped as did many of the woodland scouts. This elf’s eyes shone with a curious light, like a distant star captured in the eyes of the beholder.

Orondil was startled by the eyes, shaken by the figure before him. There standing before Orondil was a character from history, from tales told to children, to scare them and inspire them. One he had read about as a youth. A hero, an enemy, a figure from the old tales, one who had not been part of Gildor’s company so Orondil believed.

“Your father will have me. The courtesy of hospitality is owed to me by your house,” the elf commanded, but his tone was not imperious. His words were gentle, the weariness and the weight of ages filled his voice with a sadness that threatened to snake its way around Orondil’s heart.

Orondil had heard of the incantations wrought by the elves of old, powers that were reserved and guided by strict protocols in the Wood. No elf born after the second age possessed them. This magic was truly old and potent! Orondil took a moment to compose himself. He could not deny this elf the courtesy of hospitality, though this elf was not a loved figure amongst his people. Orondil bowed his head, acknowledging the elf’s elder status, one that Thranduil had shared was owed much by the house of Oropher, even though this elf had a hand undoing Thingol’s kingdom, and sending Oropher and his kin as refugees into the broken world of a post Beleriand.

“My King will receive you,” Orondil agreed, “but do not expect a joy at your arrival.” 

Orondil addressed the company of wandering elves, “We will escort you to our King’s keep.”

Gildor spoke for the company, “I thank you Lord Orondil.”

Orondil looked to Gildor, to the older elf smiling. Of course they would recognize him, for he looked like a dark haired version of his father, Thranduil, tall and strong like an oak. Not these Noldor, they were tall like mountains and broad like stone. While they were graceful, they lacked the bend of the wood, their movement fluid, but not like the wind. They were not elves of the wood and the wood elves noted the vibrations their boots made as they walked forward, very much unlike a wood elf.

)()()()(

The elves walked quietly, but Orondil was unnerved. He could feel the eyes of that elf on him, trailing him. There was a darkness there. Orondil chastised himself quietly. Was he not a soldier of the wood, battling the darkness from the South?! All this elf was doing was looking at him, but the cold sweat on his neck betrayed Orondil. He heard him then, his steps obvious, coming to walk next to Orondil. Orondil willed himself to calm.

“If I may,” the elder elf spoke.

Orondil turned to look at him, but could not find his eyes beneath his hood. Here was an elf once an enemy of his grandfather. Orondil did not know the full story. It was strange indeed that Thranduil was sworn to courtesy to this elf, but anything having to do with elder days, though he was studied, did not make much sense to Orondil’s young wood elf sensibilities.

“Perhaps I should remove this,” the elf spoke to himself. The elf threw back his hood, revealing his bright grey eyes. The light of his eyes grew dimmer. The elf spoke, “I am not around many beings,” the elf noted apologetically, “I forget to dim the light of my eyes.”

Orondil looked up into this tall elf’s eyes. Artist’s renderings could not capture the intensity of being on the receiving end of those eyes.

“You look like your father,” the elf spoke to Orondil.

Orondil answered, “I do. Except the hair,” he offered, more clumsily than he liked. Orondil scolded himself. He needed to speak with more authority. Surely his own company would think lesser of him for allowing this elf to speak to him with such familiarity, but the elf had a power to him.

The elder elf chuckled softly. “Brown is uncommon amongst my people. Surely you would have received an epessë if you had been one of my people.”

Orondil could not tell whether the elder elf’s informal manner was purposeful or not. “Brown is common amongst the Silvan,” he answered seriously, “as Black was amongst your people.” Orondil noted that Maglor’s hair was more of a brown than the black of the images he had seen of him, but said nothing.

The elder elf frowned slightly. “I suppose we are a disappeared people.”

Orondil flinched. “I did not mean offence,” Orondil offered, but he felt he regained some of his power. “My mother had Black hair,” Orondil added as an afterthought. After all this Maglor was perhaps the closest in line to his mother, a direct descendant of Morwë and Tatië.

“Maglor, please,” the elder elf insisted. The elf’s voice undid Orondil’s resolve to be formal. The elder elf continued, oblivious to the protocols of being in escort. “I see you have noticed that my own hair lacks the color you imagined. My hair seems to weary of this world and is fading like the trees in autumn.” Maglor spoke with an ease through his sadness, a sadness that compelled him into memory. “Tell me,” Maglor asked Orondil, “do more of your people bear such a blackness of hair the Noldor are known for?”

Maglor spoke of the Noldor in present tense. For Orondil, he tended to think of most things Noldor as past. “Yes, my lord Maglor, though not like you will find in Rivendell.” Orondil answered, refusing to speak to Maglor too informally. “I suppose our kinship from the first days is evident in that,” Orondil observed. “If you think of it that way, you are not a disappeared people.”

Maglor smiled. He didn’t correct Orondil still referring him as lord. “Is your father’s gold still a rarity?”

Orondil opened his mouth, but closed it, weighing how much to say to Maglor. Maglor raised an eyebrow at Orondil’s conundrum.

“I knew Oropher well,” Maglor reminded the young elf, “And as you say, we are kin of sort. My grandfather, Finwë, spoke much of your ancestor Morwë. Morwë was the one to wake Finwë after all.” Maglor did not mean to impress the young elf with his ancestry and his nearness to it. Maglor knew, from Thranduil before, that very few of the Unbegotten remained amongst the people now called Silvan, for the wood elves encountered Morgoth quite bitterly and at quite a cost. The wood elves were, more than most other groups, many generations separated from the Awakening at Cuiviénen. Maglor also reasoned that Orondil knew that he and Oropher had known each other well, and even though Maglor was responsible for Dior’s death and the Kinslaying of many known to Oropher, Maglor was sure that, at least, Thranduil, told his children that Maglor was the reason that Oropher’s descendants were possible.

Orondil searched his knowledge, but the stories of the first and second age were epic tomes that told little of the details Maglor described. “Nay my lord Maglor, my youngest brother is also fair of hair, though I am told it is more like my grandfather’s hair,” Orondil replied.

Orondil hesitated. He wanted to ask Maglor all he could about his enigmatic grandfather. While Thranduil was still pained by his father’s loss, he would at times share stories of Oropher, of their time in Thingol’s court in the great cave fortress of Menegroth, of the realm of Doriath. Orondil was proud of his ancestry, of his line to these great Houses of the Sindarin realms and of those that stayed, called Avari by those who did not know better. It was in these thoughts that returned some of his trepidation for Maglor. It was Maglor’s father who created the Silmarils that led to Thingol’s death, the betrayal of the dwarves, the death of Dior, and ultimately the drowning of Beleriand that sent his grandparents and their children to Lindon. And yet despite all this, Thranduil made it clear to them, that the house of Oropher, owed a great deal to the wandering Maglor, who flung a Silmaril into the sea and cast himself to exile evermore.

Maglor grew sad. “What is your brother’s name?”

This startled Orondil. Surely Maglor would have heard Legolas’ name mentioned amongst Elrond and the other elven folk?

Maglor noticed Orondil’s surprise. “I do not keep the company of elves. I choose solitude as my companion. And I do not ask after the matters of this age much,” Maglor admitted.

Orondil wanted to ask Maglor why he was with Gildor, then? What was his purpose in coming? This intrigued Orondil, but he knew this was not his business. This was the King’s business. Orondil’s only job was to escort them to where his father could decide just how this hospitality would be extended.

“Legolas,” Orondil answered after a moment.

“A fine name,” Maglor shared, “a name in your elder tongue.”

“I am surprised that you would know that,” Orondil replied.

Maglor spoke somberly, “For no reason is Elrond considered The Wise, for it was my brother and I that tutored him, cultivating that passion for knowledge.”

“Indeed, a Noldorin trait,” Orondil answered, “yet it seems most people remain ignorant of us.”

“That is true too, but I am not most elves,” Maglor responded back.

_And that is what I am afraid of,_ Orondil thought to himself, answering instead, “Of course, my lord Maglor.”

They walked on quietly for a few more miles, the guards cautiously eyeing the Noldorin group. The sound of the enchanted river grew.

Orondil’s face grew bright. “We draw near.”

“Thank you for your escort,” Maglor answered drawing his hood over his head. Many a curious elf had watched them from the trees. Maglor resisted drawing his hood up earlier, for he would have been rude to do so in conversation with Thranduil’s son. Soon. Soon he would see him again, but Maglor was most curious about his youngest. Hair like Oropher’s. Maglor sighed into memory, allowing himself the rare opportunity to revisit a once upon a time.

Maglor was young then. Before Thingol knew of the first Kinslaying, Maglor had happened upon a small Sindarin patrol when he met a young impressionable Oropher. Oropher was curious of the Noldor, a curiosity not yet turned to distrust, so he’d make sure his scouting took him near where he knew the Noldor might be hunting. He was transfixed by their King, Maglor Fëanorion, a sad figure that sang the most melancholy of songs that would stir visions Oropher had never dreamed of. Maglor encouraged Oropher’s visits, finding his brief interludes with the Sindarin elf a reprieve from the duties of King hoisted onto him unwillingly. He learned that though young, Oropher was a father, had a son that was nearing his majority. Much like Fëanor, Oropher had married younger than most and started a family. He was but 100 years of age himself. Oropher’s newness was an elixir to Maglor in his state of despair in those early days of exile, losing both is father and Maedhros. Maglor was taken by Oropher and Oropher by Maglor. Maglor spent himself in Oropher one day. Oropher’s people were ruled by the Laws and Customs, but they were not bound by them, not like the Noldor had been. Maglor remembered his finger’s slipping through the gold of Oropher’s hair, like fine silk…

Maglor shook himself out of memory. It was years since he allowed himself to walk in it. Instead Maglor schooled himself back into his present, his penitence of walking, but now a darkness was afoot that burned his insides, an evil he knew well. Damned with foresight and the strange stories that had come to Maglor, Maglor decided he needed to speak with Thranduil, though the White council had insisted no such thing occur, except Elrond. Elrond was the only one that knew fully what troubled Maglor. The White Council held no power over the wandering elves, even if Maglor had offered them lukewarm assurances he would not go to Thranduil. Elrond knew better than to dissuade his foster father, and Galadriel could not yet still look upon Maglor with love. There was too much bitterness there. Maglor was not sad for the lack of her love for him.

The sound of leaves rustling vigorously reminded Maglor that he needed to find the now, for that was hard for him. That sense of time eluded Maglor. Maglor looked at the trees around him, saw the soft lights of the Silvan homes in the trees above. It was night but the stars were bright, the details of the place were not lost to his elven sight. The mighty Forest River ran swiftly at their side as they neared the bridge that led them to the large doors of the Woodland King’s Hall in the cavernous keep. The sight of the doors provoked a profound dissociation with time and the present. Maglor had never set eyes on Thranduil’s keep. It was an ode to Menegroth, but for Maglor it was also a return to the scene of a heinous act that he repented for: the Second Kinslaying, the Ruin of Doriath, and the attack by the sons of Fëanor of Dior and his people in the Thousand Caves, the Sack of Menegroth. So many names for this event. The memory was a tomb. Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir fell there. Dior and Nimloth were slain there. So many of Dior’s people died there as did many Fëanorians, those Noldor sworn to loyalty to the House of Fëanor. It was by Maglor’s own sword that Dior died, the same hand that held the Silmaril and tossed it to the sea. Maglor’s hand started burning again. Maglor felt it shriveling, but looking at it, it was still whole, though marked with a whitening of skin where the Silmaril had radiated and burned him long, long ago. But the pain was real. Maglor had been right to come. Of this he was quite sure. Perhaps Maedhros’ desperate search in the woods after the Sack of Menegroth that found nothing, would now come to an end, here in the South of the Mirkwood.

)()()()(

Nemir ran to Thranduil’s tree home, but Thranduil was already descending from above. Thranduil knew that elves came, and he knew they were Noldor. To Nemir, Thranduil spoke, “I heard the song of stone and great warriors long gone returned. Why are they here?”

“Orondil’s messenger just arrived, Maglor comes with them with tidings,” Nemir reported.

Thranduil spun around, his loose hair whipping around him, “Maglor? This I did not discover!”

Nemir replied, walking next to Thranduil’s nervous figure, “He has long been thought lost, faded, but it seems perhaps it is his song that has left him.”

Thranduil stopped, speaking into memory and some future, “I understand why they were allowed entry. They do not bring good tidings.”

“Of this we can be sure,” Nemir replied. “Do you want me to make ready where they will be staying?

Thranduil continued his path to the cavernous keep, “I do not want them to stay.”

“You owe them your courtesy,” Nemir reminded him, the huge stone doors opening to welcome them in.

“Then I thank you for being their host. I do not want to exchange words with Gildor. I owe him nothing. It is Maglor that I will speak with.”

“Protocol?” Nemir asked, wanting to know what type of welcome should be made for the Noldor.

“Cautious,” Thranduil answered. “I do not trust them. We will see to it. I am sure what Maglor wishes to share with me will be shared privately.”

The two were in the caves, attendants were rushing around, readying the throne room for their unanticipated guests. Elven soldiers materialized from the depths of the caves. Thranduil went into his study to compose himself. A heavy unease settled in his heart. The Noldor were coming.

)()()()(

Maglor gathered himself, steadying his nerves. Ah, but the feeling of being alive. What an unsettling sensation for Maglor. The great stone doors opened and a line of woodland soldiers greeted them. Orondil led the company into the caves. They were flanked by soldiers on all sides.

Maglor’s breath threatened to leave him. Memories of his last meeting with Thranduil, more beautiful than Oropher and not innocent like Oropher. Thranduil was arrogant and brilliant and fey. Maglor had hungered for him once. But more potent still were memories of another cavernous keep, long, long ago. Unlike the splendor of Menegroth, these caves were _alive!_ Fireflies fluttered above them, carpeting the ceilings with pulsating light, moving with the company to light the way as they marched to the King’s throne. The sounds of the forest river tumbling over subterranean boulders reverberated like a heartbeat in the dense stone walls. There was a lightness to these caves. They were airy and not overly wrought as Menegroth had been. The wood elves did not impose their will. Instead the wood elves managed to convince the roots of the trees that descended from the hill above to curl into delicate shapes.

The company descended into the large throne room, greeted by great stalactites that hung from the ceiling made of delicate crystal, the fires lit within the cave causing them to shimmer. Maglor was taken aback by the beauty of the cave, and also by the springtide of the woodland soldiers that followed discretely by them. Long ago, Tirion was full of such vibrancy. Maglor was a ghost of that memory.

The company crossed a narrow rope bridge across the river that ran below them and tumbled into the depths of caves beneath them. Thranduil’s throne stood on a stone that had fallen long ago over the river that cascaded beneath it. A fine mist hemmed the stone. It was lit by the bioluminescence that clung to the rock. Thranduil’s throne was carved into the grand roots of an old yew tree that was surely a mighty sight above. Flanking the throne was a cathedral of trees carved naturally from stalagmites.

Thranduil watched imperiously from his throne, looking down on them. His eyes shone with an internal fire of his own, the magic of the wood, its own luminescence, distinct from the light of the two trees. He wore a crown of braided vines, woven with woodland flowers in full bloom, a whimsical touch of woodland magic.

Orondil walked up and kneeled before his father who sat high upon his throne. “Tārō Thranduil, I come before you with guests that have sought entry to the wood. We have honored their request as one of their company claimed right of entry and I judged it legitimate.”

Thranduil spoke to the Noldor, “Step forward you who claim this right. I will now consider whether it is in the Wood’s benefit.”

Nemir stood below Thranduil, near the wandering company. Quietly he spoke to the group, “Come forward and remove your hood,” he directed.

Maglor stepped forward and drew his hood back. Many of the elves gathered gasped to see this figure from history, like one risen from the dead, before them. Thranduil sat up straight on his throne, his eyes shining brightly. Thranduil raised a hand, indicating Maglor should speak. Maglor bowed before Thranduil in that ancient way the Noldor greeted lords, bringing his hand to his heart. “King of the Woodland Realm, Tārō Thranduil,” Maglor spoke in perfectly accented Silvan, “I am here humbly before you to bring tidings and seek council from you.”

This surprised Thranduil. Maglor wanted to seek council? Surely this meant something truly serious was afoot.

Maglor concluded, “I requested entry based on ties of old between our Houses.”

Thranduil spoke, “Those ties are remembered and the Wood is grateful to you Maglor Fëanorion. We honor your request and grant you shelter. Tell me, how long will you stay?”

Maglor replied, “Thank you Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, our stay will depend on what is exchanged.” Maglor would not overstay Thranduil’s slim welcome, though he hoped that Thranduil would allow his errand, what Maglor believed would be his last in Endórë.

Thranduil spoke to the group, “That satisfies me. Nemir,” Thranduil directed himself to his second, “See it done.”

But what none heard was the mind speech between Thranduil and Maglor that hung in the air, like memory and a sad melody marked by doom. It went something like this: _Thranduil,_ Maglor Fëanorion’s deep sonorous voice communicated, and yet the reverberations in Thranduil’s mind were haunted. He’d heard Maglor whisper in his ears just so- long, long ago. In turn, Thranduil greeted Fëanor’s second son, Maglor, but to Maglor’s eyes, to hear the form of his name in Thranduil’s thoughts was beauty and breath. Maglor sighed into Thranduil’s mind, leaning into him for support. _I am tired and weary. Darkness comes. The doom is yet here and I come to see it end._

_See it end?,_ Thranduil replied, but his energy was unlike that of the Noldor that was clear and vivid. Thranduil’s ósanwë was lyrical and subdued, requiring Maglor to concentrate deeply so it wouldn’t escape, carried away by the song of the stone or the river below. _Maglor Fëanorion, I did not hear you coming here. Tell me where is your song?_

Maglor’s own mind speech was tired and strained. He wasn’t practiced in it, despised to use it, but this was such a time for it. Maglor smiled, but to those watching it seemed a gesture of respect, but to Thranduil, it was more than memory, it was the past resurrected, things he did not want to remember. Maglor shared, _I cannot find it. Perhaps it is faded. You must see my thinness._

Thranduil shook his head affirmatively, speaking for all to hear, “That satisfies me…” but privately he shared with Maglor, _You are fading. Your song has lost its way. You may find it yet._

Maglor ended with, _The Wood has its way. I would like to sleep under its trees for I hear they deliver one great peace._

“See it done,” Thranduil directed himself to Nemir, but he did not take his eyes off of Maglor. With a flourish of his arm, the company was courteously escorted out of the cave and into guest quarters high up in the trees, across the river outside the caves.

Maglor disrobed and found the sleeping tunic left for him. Finding his bed he fell unceremoniously on it and hoped for sleep, the kind unusual for elves. It came, under the light of the moon and the care of the trees of the woodland realm, deep and restful.

)()()(

Legolas’ emerged from his deep slumber. It was unusual for elves to sleep in this manner, but when the woodland elves were on patrol near Dol Guldur for some time, the darkness took its toll. The sleep was working the darkness out of him. It took strange form. Legolas dreamt of old stories, saw the plains of Lothlann burning and riders fleeing the sudden onslaught of flames. He’d dreamt of drowning in the ocean, seeking slumber in its depths, and being tossed out of the sea onto rocky sea cliffs.. His dreams led him to peaceful paths, a father’s hands, his own mother’s face, though gone, a source of healing for Legolas. In his dream she was young, as Legolas was, her long, dark hair woven with flowers. She smiled and soothed her son in his sleep. She was the most beautiful being Legolas could imagine existing.

Legolas took after her, except his hair that was gold like his father’s and his grandfather’s. Feleth’s parents lived in the wood yet, in the Mountains of Mirkwood, by the Enchanted River. They had not followed Thranduil to the settlement near the caves, but this was not uncommon with the Silvan. They held Thranduil as King, Tārō, and did their duty as caretakers of the River, ensuring its enchantment would not fade. In his dreams, Legolas walked with his grandparents, their own parents lost to death in one of many battles that had come before. Together with them, they tended the spirits of the Wood, those dead, woodland kin, that found their way to the waters of the river, up high. The enchanted river a well of spirits and the source of the Woods magic. It was said lost souls and those seeking stolen fëas would be healed here. In his dreams Legolas saw two boys. Elrond’s sons? Why? Legolas’ mother called him away from the river. Legolas followed her and fell into her embrace.

After waking, Legolas found a steaming bowl of oats and nuts and fruits waiting for him upon a table in one of the enclosed rooms. Legolas whispered a thanks to the unknown elf that anticipated his needs and ate quickly, for he felt an edge in the air that tickled his nerves with an unknown electricity. He found it familiar, like the roaring flames of his dreams but also submerged deep in murky depths. The trees were busy whispering about the guests that came to the wood. _Guests?_ Legolas thought to himself. They must be the source of the strange energy, but no one had come to wake him. Legolas frowned. While he understood that Thranduil allowed his son his sleep, if he were Orondil, Thranduil would surely have sent for him. Legolas did not like his childish jealousy, but he acknowledged that it was something he needed to work through.

Legolas slipped on a simple linen tunic and light wool tights of green hue. He needed no shoes in the Wood, but decided to slip on a pair of light grey boots, made of a soft leather. He loosely braided his hair into one long plait, securing the ends with a leather tie. Legolas’ curiosity was taking over. He wanted to discover just who these guests were. Legolas decided to go find his father.

And find his father he did for Thranduil was coming to look for Legolas. “Legolas, I must speak with you,” Thranduil commanded. Catching his harsh tone, Thranduil remembered himself, “I trust you are rested.”

“I am father and I was just coming to look for you. Tell me, who has come, for I hear a different and strange song?”

“A company of Noldor not of Imladris, one of the wandering companies.” Thranduil answered.

“That would explain it,” Legolas responded, speaking to himself.

Thranduil shot his son a stern look. “Explain what?” he asked, though Thranduil understood that his sensitive son most likely encountered the Noldor in the dream world.

“I dreamt of the Dagor Bragollach. I dreamt of Maglor Fëanorion. I was standing in that place known long ago as Maglor’s gap.” Legolas explained to his father, confident his father could offer him answers that would comfort him.

Thranduil raise a single eyebrow. “Because Maglor is here.”

“Here?!” Legolas exclaimed. “How, why?”

“He has tidings and seeks answers to a riddle of his own.”

Did Legolas’ dreams contain aspects of that riddle? He did not reveal this to Thranduil for Legolas could not make sense of it yet. Legolas was confident he’d find the path that would reveal the riddle, but he needed more information. He’d need to meet Maglor, soon.

Legolas and Thranduil spoke at length, but Thranduil held Legolas’ curiosity at arm’s length, speaking abstractly about his relationship with Maglor. Legolas knew his father was not telling him the full story. He’d never inquired much about it, as it was not his place, but now that Maglor was here and had called on Thranduil to honor old obligations. The honor code of the old days was not familiar to Legolas. The woodland realm was largely insular. They had dealings with the woodsmen and the people of Laketown, rarely seeking council with the other Elven realms.

Maglor’s coming to the Wood was an event!


	3. Many meetings

“I laid low the warriors of old and their like is not in the world today.”

Smaug to Bilbo in _The Hobbit._

)()()()()(

Legolas left his father to find the ancient elf, relic of another time. It was easy enough to know where he was. The trees leaves rustled whispering, _down by the river by mother oak_. Legolas walked toward the large oak, oldest, of the wood. Of course, Maglor would be drawn to her.

Maglor heard Legolas first, his song like a deep pulsating beacon, and just then such sweet notes, a greenness of melody and a softness resplendent. What Song? Maglor was startled. What elf could possess such a song of beauty. Oh but it made Maglor’s heartache. And then he saw him, like a tall evergreen, strong and lithe, potent and innocent. He was beautiful. Ah, this was Thranduil’s son, no doubt! Maglor’s eyes focused intensely on the figure before him. But then…

Legolas turned swiftly towards him, startled, breathless, a caution darkening his features. Legolas looked at Maglor. But how, how could the source of the strange emptiness and darkness Legolas felt overcome him radiate from this elf? Maglor had a feeling about him that was distorted. Coming into his orbit was like falling into a void. If one could find time, it was bent and prone to lose itself. It was not Song Legolas realized. It was a cage. Light could not find its way through it.

Maglor’s grey eyes were deep and darkest silver. He gazed upon Legolas with a strange mix of marvel and remorse. His hair was gold, but his eyes were the strangest green, almost an unnatural hue, as if possessed by whatever green magic haunted the wood. Legolas had the stature of his father and the beauty of what must be his mother. Maglor never knew her, but he could see the line of Morwë in Legolas: his high cheekbones, the strong nose, and full lips. What did Legolas see in him? Surely a terror. Maglor did not see the world as Legolas did.

Maglor’s fëa was like looking through the prism of a crystal, but instead of the abundance of light refracted, it was dense and cloudy, resembling the matter of storm. Were all the host of the Noldor damned to see the world through such a tortured gaze? Ah what a cruel fate, Legolas lamented. And Legolas felt pity for the Noldor, for once. Wood elves thought them haughty and dangerous, arrogant and culpable for the undoing of their world. Indeed, Oropher hated the Noldor. Thranduil did not love them, but now seeing Maglor before him, Legolas understood why his father did not turn Maglor away.

“Legolas Thranduilion, I suppose,” Maglor greeted the young elf.

“Maglor Fëanorion,” Legolas responded. “It is my hair that gave me away.”

“Yes,” Maglor answered reaching to greet the young elf. “You have some of your father in you but the line of Morwë is strong in you.”

“So I have been told,” Legolas replied.

“Should you be seen speaking with me?” Maglor looked around. “I have seen the looks of fear your people cast upon me.”

“And they are right to do so,” Legolas answered.

“You are less prohibited than your brother,” Maglor retorted. Orondil and Legolas were like night and day.

“He is a good captain. I am a better soldier. Our temperaments suit our station.”

Maglor shared a sad smile. “It is so between brothers.”

Legolas observed Maglor’s fëa slip in and out of time. The consideration of his brothers pulled him into emptiness. These Noldor were mysterious, unfathomable. Hard as Legolas tried, he could not pull Maglor back from the edge of that abyss. Elrond’s Noldorin heritage was distinct from the Noldor that had been born in Tirion.

“You see Legolas, I do not have much time. I come to this last errand.”

“An errand?” Legolas asked.

“Walk with me to speak with your father.” Maglor turned away from Legolas and left the elf standing. Legolas hastily caught up to Maglor’s retreating figure. His hröa was yet strong. Legolas marveled at the broadness of his shoulders. Legolas understood just how the Noldor of old built giant fortresses of stone once upon a time.

)()()()(

Thranduil was not in his study. Legolas knew where he was. Thranduil was expecting them. Legolas beckoned Maglor follow. Silently they descended into the caves. Maglor expected that in the deepness there would be darkness but the light remained, enough for elven eyes. They came to where the elves ferried their goods on to Laketown. Thranduil stood on the edge of a rock, watching the river’s currents.

“You will take my son,” Thranduil announced, his eyes fixed on the water.

“I did not know that until moments ago,” Maglor replied.

Thranduil spun around to face Maglor, “You ask too much!”

Maglor was not daunted by Thranduil’s fury. “I know.”

Legolas was in awe of his father, though ever young physically, he observed his father’s age for the first time. He was not dwarfed by Maglor’s size or the Fëanorian’s presence. His eyes held the light of the Wood, just as Maglor’s held the light of the Two Trees. Thranduil was one of the few that lived amongst the Silvan that had lived for so long. Harsh was the reality of Silvan life.

“Must I remind you,” Thranduil spoke between his teeth, repeating Mandos’ doom for Legolas to hear it as well: “ _For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow. For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Eä, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after_.”

“You dwell in death’s shadow,” Thranduil hissed, “waning, a shadow of your former self. Tell me it is more than regret that brings you here.”

Maglor spread his hands out imploring Thranduil. “Regret is one of the few things I have left.” Maglor moved close to stand face to face with Thranduil. “We alone did not bring that Doom. Do not lay blame solely at our feet, for who else fought Moringotto in the long night, but for the mistake of the Valar, Moringotto was loosed upon these lands, long before we journied.”

Thranduil swept Maglor’s hand away. “And yet by whose hand did Dior die? By whose craft was the One ring forged, if not that of a Fëanorian.”

Maglor was not intimated by Thranduil. They’d been here before. “Let me atone for my deeds, let me set right that which we took from Dior. I have seen what I must do in the source of your sacred waters.”

Legolas gasped, “Not there!”

Maglor spun to look at Legolas. “You have seen it too. Seen the water and fires.”

“I have,” Legolas admitted.

Thranduil cast a look of horror in Maglor’s direction. “You mean to go to the heart of the Hill of Sorcery.”

“If I do not, a greater darkness will grow and the hope that springs from your house will not play its part in the rightening of the world.”

“You have seen this?” Thranduil asked, knowing that Maglor’s foresight was not something to be trifled with.

Maglor softened as he looked upon Legolas. “I have.”

“I will go,” Legolas announced.

Thranduil’s eyes closed. “I will not curse this path I see opening before me, but it provokes a great agony.” To Maglor, Thranduil spoke angrily, “To Dior I swore an oath long ago, by my house, to protect his kin. Oaths be damned.”

The old codes were exacting a price. Legolas understood his father’s ire towards Maglor, but there was something more. Why was Thranduil so unsettled with himself when he looked upon Maglor?

Maglor spoke, “Let the old ways die. Let me fade. But I will set this right. By Dior. By Nimloth. I shall see this done.”

Tired by the weight of time Maglor brought to bear upon him, Thranduil replied. “Perhaps you shall fade. What shall you haunt?”

“I do not believe that will be my end for it is too kind,” Maglor whispered. “I shall pass out of time and the world and be not even a memory.”

“Not even a memory,” Thranduil answered, looking at Legolas.

Legolas took his father’s hand, “I am not of Menegroth. I am your son, but my blood is of the wood. I have hope yet and more than memory!”

Thranduil took his son’s face in his hands. “More than memory,” he repeated, a prayer and a declaration of love. Thranduil looked to Maglor. “I trust you with my heart, the greatest jewel. My creation. I will send you to the abyss myself if you do not bring him back.”

“Your greatest jewel,” Maglor answered. “He will return to you.”

The three walked back, beyond the gates of the cave and into the mottled sunlight beneath the trees.

)()()()(

“Ada,” Legolas spoke to his father. They sat in the large gathering meadow, away from the bustle of the caves. “You relented to Maglor. Does your oath to Dior’s family weigh that much?”

“Our oath,” Thranduil answered. “Oropher swore to Nimloth that we would recover her children.”

“By our, you mean what the Sindar refer to as our house.”

“I do,” Thranduil answered sadly. “The Silvan did well not to adopt such customs.”

“Truly,” Legolas answered disturbed. The Silvan’s did not take a King a lightly, nor did the Sindar impose their will upon them as many outside seemed to think occurred. The Silvans took Kings, Lords, and Ladies to take responsibility, do their part to protect the Silvan from the heavy burden they incurred. It was a reciprocal relationship. But the most benefit truly came to those that sought to escape the hierarchies, the duties and supposedly edifying influence of the Noldor and Sindar cultures.

Legolas continued, “You will tell me of that Kinslaying. I believe it is the source of our family’s hate of the Fëanorians.”

“You could guess this as much,” Thranduil answered.

“True, but you have never shared details.”

“What for?” Thranduil replied sadly. “Knowing what happened would be a burden and one that you need not have.”

“Until now,” Legolas answered simply.

“I suppose,” Thranduil replied, drained.

“Dior died by Maglor’s hand.” Legolas gathered.

“Yes,” Thranduil answered looking into the fire that burned in the large stone hearth in the gathering meadow.

“Who took Nimloth’s life?”

“I am not sure,” Thranduil added. “I did not witness this. My mother had the twins, Eluréd and Elurín, and Elwing. Your grandmother was a servant to Nimloth, watched the children. Oropher stood with my mother to try to help defend them, but the servants of Celegorm stripped the twins from their hands, injuring Oropher. As you know Elwing escaped, but not Eluréd and Elurín. I do not speak of it because the memory of it is a whirlwind. I was stunned. I’d never expected to see elves killing elves.” Thranduil paused, looking to the surrounding trees for some steadiness. “Legolas you cannot imagine the horror of that.” 

Thranduil grew quiet. Legolas said not a word. He never knew his father had witnessed this. This explained so much.

Thranduil continued, “My mother and I fled with Elwing and other survivors to the Havens of Sirion. My grandfathers and others stayed behind to fight. Nimloth made my grandfathers’ swear they would not give up the search for the twins. She suffered terribly before she passed on.”

“They were not found,” Legolas voice drifted to the pages of history he read.

“No they were not. My grandfathers, Amdir and Ithilbor, were killed in this siege. Oropher survived. In Sirion, we did not know, at first, that he survived. He was away long. Oropher searched and searched for the twins. It is an odd, sad story for he aided Maedhros in the search of the twins. Though Maedhros was a kinslayer he bitterly regretted that Celegorm’s people had taken the children.”

Legolas understood the utter hate Oropher had for the Fëanorians, understood why he was bitter under the leadership of Gil-Galad, though he was Fingon’s son and had tried to help Elwing and her people when they were later attacked by the Fëanorians in the Havens. “What happened to those that took the children?” Legolas asked.

“Maedhros took their heads.”

Legolas gasped. It was beyond horror. Terror he could fathom from the darkness, from Morgoth, from Sauron, but not from elves! Legolas was glad to not have dealings with those folks, glad to be young, but he was heartsick for his father.

“Legolas what did you see in your dreams for the details of it are unclear to me,” Thranduil, asked connecting moments across time and experiences.

“I saw two young boys, I thought they were Elrond’s sons, for they were twins,” Legolas described to his father.

Thranduil leaned towards Legolas, his aura sharing the urgency behind his voice. “Where were they?”

“At the source of the enchanted river,” Legolas revealed, “in the Mountains of Mirkwood. Mother was there too.”

Thranduil fell back, covering his face with his hands. “Nimloth’s oath beckons and she has summoned you. Loathe these days again!”

“Is this why you are willing to let me go with Maglor?”

“Yes,” Thranduil whispered forlorn. “Maglor also saw you would play a role in this. Bitter, bitter days.”

“I understand,” Legolas answered, attempting to make sense of the puzzles he was piecing together. “Tell me father, is there anything redeemable in Maglor? I sense that you are torn by something?”

“Oh Legolas, my innocent Legolas. There are many things I should tell you, but I do not know how?” Thranduil responded, overwhelmed by history crashing down on him.

“You must try if I am to do this duty at his side,” Legolas urged.

“You will not like it,” Thranduil answered shortly.

“Perhaps not, but you must,” Legolas insisted. If he was expected to do this deed with Maglor, he had to find some balance between the terrible things Maglor did and those things that made him brave.

Thranduil’s beauty was dimmed by his sadness. “I will need help. I am not myself.” Thranduil stood and searched the edge of the field until he found what he was looking for. A delicate mushroom. He tore a piece for himself and another for Legolas, offering it to him.

“Legolas you must understand that when the Noldor arrived, returned from the West, many of us were awestruck,” Thranduil began, putting the mushroom in his mouth and chewing. “Not so with Thingol,” Thranduil remembered. “He was jealous, but also had greater wisdom. In those early days your grandfather, myself, we were all so young, eager to the world around us”.

Legolas understood that.

“Your grandfather Oropher was captivated by them. They were larger than life, come with the light of the two trees, tall and strong and so unlike any of our kin on these lands. Oh Legolas, your young heart, I am glad you were spared of them. We were bewitched.”

“Show me,” Legolas urged his father, the mushroom gently opening up their pathways of perception.

Thranduil agreed. “I ask the spirit of the wood to guide me to these memories and hold me gently for I have not travelled to these times in an age.”

The spirit of the wood answered: a slight breeze and a twinkling of fireflies like low lying stars amongst the flowers in the meadow. Assuaged, Thranduil sighed, “I will share this memory with you, so you can understand who Maglor was, hear his song, for you must support him in the endeavor you set yourselves too.” Thranduil sang lays of old, innocent songs the Sindar sang of Maglor of the Mighty voice. Through his father’s song and the conjuring of the green magic of the wood, Legolas saw before him a scene of Maglor singing in a field under the new moon. He recognized his grandfather Oropher amongst a group of elves that sat around a fire and shared tales with Maglor.

_Maglor was king of the Noldor at this time_ , Legolas shared wordlessly, remembering lessons of these times. Thranduil was young, just come of age. They sat mesmerized by the voice of Maglor. Legolas felt himself melt into the grasses of the meadow, sinking into the earth, held in its own sweet memory of these times.

Maglor was startlingly young, not like the elf at present, though not aged, the wear of time hung on the present Maglor like a curse. In this yesteryear, Maglor was intoxicating, eyes bright, hair blackest of night, and a Song so brilliant. The Noldor were magnetic and potent, larger than life as his father had shared.

Maglor looked at Legolas and smiled sweetly. _Who are you?_ Maglor asked of Legolas.

_A guest_ , Legolas answered, _come to hear your songs_.

_From where?_ Maglor asked.

_From far away,_ Legolas answered.

_In time it seems_ , Maglor guessed. This Maglor was at once the Maglor of long ago, but also the Maglor of today for the wood was exacting memory from him too.

Legolas heard Maglor’s Song. It was like nothing he’d ever heard. Maglor was more than just a minstrel, he had an insight into the song that was so different than Legolas’ own. It was old, very old, and it smelled of fire.

_My father’s fire_ , Maglor answered.

Legolas leaned into the Song. There was the mountain made of rock and tending and shaping of the stone.

_My mother’s hands,_ Maglor replied.

The notes of Maglor’s Song revealed the heart of Eä in a way that was so distinctively Noldor. The notes marched on confidently, bright and bold, the crescendos like cascading waterfalls and the quiet notes like the expanse of the night sky. These Noldor were not tethered to lands in the same way the woodland folk were. They had a different sense of self, but what struck Legolas was, when hearing the other Noldor songs, they were all quite unique and not discordant with one another. Like a mad symphony of strings that found just the way to harmonize and weave together. Unlike the song of the Wood that was the foundation of wood elf Song, which they fiercely tended, colored by the individual traits of each elf.

Maglor’s voice sounded powerful and clear into the night reaching towards the light of Ithilien and bringing him down for a moment to dance of the clearing of that night long ago. Oh such beauty of voice, of inner song, Legolas witnessed. Legolas looked to his grandfather Oropher. Oropher had a familiar fire in his eyes. He too longed for Maglor! And Maglor offered to quench some of that longing.

_I too sought to unburden myself in Maglor once upon a time_ , Thranduil revealed, observing his young self. _I was innocent then._

Legolas smiled. _You are not so different from me than you would have me believe_.

_I am not_ , Thranduil admitted, also finding joy in the memory of this moment and other moments that hung parallel that night.

Legolas wove in and out of his father’s memories until the magic of the wood released them and coaxed them to a light sleep, the light of the crescent moon a beacon to the present of time, though time was always in flux, but only Song could make its way through those dimensions in this manner.

Legolas came too. His head was in his father’s lap. Thranduil was running his fingers through his hair. Legolas snuggled contentedly, inching closer to Thranduil. He’d witness much of Thranduil’s memories of those early days, but Legolas would also need to get to know Maglor and see the world as he had, as he did.

)()()()(

The next few days were a storied time in the Wood. Having the company of ancient Noldor offered opportunities for conversations to be had. And the Noldor knew that much would be asked of them. This they were ready for.

Orondil took to speaking with Gildor since Thranduil would have nothing to do with him. They were eating the first food of the day, breaking the night fast. “Where do you get your oats?”

“From the people of Lake-town. They have large fields of different grains,” Orondil shared.

“What do you trade for them?” Gildor inquired, curious to the day to day lives of wood elves.

“We harvest wood for them. The people of Lake-town have, over the years, allowed us to do this work for them. They were taking from the nearby woods too greedily. The Wood was not happy with this so the elves acted as intermediaries between Lake-town and the wood.”

“I did not know the extent of relations between the Woodland realm and the Men of the Wood and Lake,” Orondil offered.

“Many people are ignorant of us,” Orondil observed.

Another Noldor, Calmacil, sworn to Fingolfin in elder days, asked, “Do you wish it were different?”

Orondil observed the elf. He was a typical Noldor, black of hair, tall and strong like stone. His grey eyes were piercing. There was a weight to this elf that unnerved Orondil, not unlike Maglor. “We are not interested in correcting the judgement of others,” Orondil answered.

Gildor glanced at Calmacil and back at Orondil. “Calmacil is the oldest of our company.”

“How old,” Enith, Orondil’s spouse asked, curiously looking over the elf known as Calmacil.

Calmacil shot a look at Gildor, grunting. Orondil raised an eyebrow, “How old?”

“I awoke at Cuiviénen. I have not father or mother. Only a clan.”

Enith opened her mouth to speak but could not find her words. She had so many questions. Orondil was also surprised. Finally, Enith spoke, instead of asking a question, she offered her thoughts: “Few of the Unbegotten remain among us. Those that remain, do not live in this settlement.” Looking at Calmacil, Enith added, “But you know this.”

Calmacil set his spoon down. “I do my lady. Not many of the unbegotten remain in these lands.”

It was Nemir’s turn to speak. “Like us, little is known to us about your company, how you came to gather. I suppose this ignorance is by your device?”

Calmacil liked Nemir, recognized kin. “I see Morwë in you,” he replied, not answering Nemir’s question.

Nemir sat back. “We are kin through Clan.”

“Indeed we are,” Calmacil answered.

Gildor interrupted, “Calmacil was never of the Noldor that chose to leave these lands.”

“How so?” Orondil asked curious. He’d never heard a Noldor described in this manner.

“Chose not to leave these lands?” another elf interrupted, sitting down with the group. It was Legolas.

Nemir answered Legolas. “Calmacil is unbegotten.”

“I see,” Legolas replied, sitting down.

Looking at Nemir, Calmacil answered his question as well as that of Orondil: “There is always a will set in motion to make ignorance keep us from knowing each other fully. I did not go willingly.” Calmacil shot an annoyed glance at Gildor.

“Not willingly,” Enith repeated, “say more! This is a story we do not know.”

Looking to Maglor who sat with Thranduil at another table and then at Legolas, Calmacil sighed. “I was sworn to protect Finwë and whatever family he had. I made this promise to him in our first years that I would protect him. And he needed it those first years, he took to wandering. These lands were hostile and dangerous in those early days. Moringotto took many an elf. When he returned and asked us to follow him West, I followed because I was sworn to look after him, his family. When his sons came West I followed Fingolfin on the Ice.”

Enith shivered. The story of the Ice was normally safe at a distance, but not with Calmacil sitting across from her.

“I do not like oaths,” Legolas spoke.

Gildor added, “Nor do I.”

Nemir spoke, “And now you look after Maglor.”

Calmacil inclined his head.

“Elrond and his descendants?” Enith inquired.

“All of them,” Calmacil answered quietly.

“That is a heavy burden,” Nemir conceded.

“But one you will understand for you are a descendent of Tata, parent of our clan.”

Orondil asked, “The second-elf father?”

“Not father,” Calmacil shot back, “Tata was not how you or I imagine father and mother.”

Nemir spoke a quiet prayer, “Tata, all, infinite.”

“The Wood has memory,” Calmacil responded.

Enith added closing words, like prayer, words that Legolas, Nemir, and Orondil echoed: “The Wood remembers.”

Gildor looked from Calmacil to the Silvans. At least Calmacil seemed suitably satisfied. Gildor was not of Calmacil’s faith, though it heartened him, that here in the heart of the wood, Calmacil found kindred of a sort. “I, on the other hand, am a heretic,” he shared with the group, grunting in Calmacil’s direction.

Calmacil ignored Gildor.

“What Calmacil will not say is how, even after the passage of ages, he finds those devoted to Finrod impractical,” Gildor prodded his friend.

“Naïve,” Calmacil shot back.

Enith, Nemir, Legolas and Orondil exchanged looks. They were enjoying learning about the Noldor from these two. It was no wonder this company did not seek the company of others much. They’d wear out their welcome quickly with their feuds!

Legolas’ eyes grew bright, “I knew I recognized your name, you were, what we would call a captain, in Fingolfin’s armies! You fought in the War of Wrath and slew a fire drake. Tell me, how large was Ancalagon,” the words spilled out of Legolas. Legolas was thrilled to be speaking with one of the characters he’d read about in his early studies.

Orondil looked fondly at his younger brother. He was devastated that Legolas would go with Maglor on their dangerous journey. More so in this moment, for Legolas was bright and hopeful, in awe of the world.

Calmacil smiled. Legolas lightened everyone’s moods. His Song was infectious. “He was mountain size,” Calmacil’s eyes grew wide, and his voice echoed with ancient memory. “He dwarfed any of the fire drakes of recent times.” A sadness overcame Calmacil, “Only a few survive.”

Nemir responded, “At least one still roams the southlands. Not long ago Scatha haunted the Grey Mountains looking for treasure, laying ruin to dwarves and men alike.”

“Do you wish dragons remained?” Orondil asked, confused by Calmacil’s somberness.

Calmacil sighed. “No young one. I was just thinking how rare we are, the Noldor that remain and the dragons.”

“Oh,” Orondil responded. 

Before Orondil could say It was for the best, Legolas exclaimed, “I will have none of this. You are in the Wood, and we are yet here and hope springs from every living thing in it.”

Calmacil raised a glass to Legolas, “Aye young one, to the Wood!”

The gathered elves raised their glasses, toasting the Wood. The mood lightened considerably. This was the power of the Wood, to thrive despite darkness and shadow.

Legolas peppered the older Calmacil with questions. Orondil too asked about the elder days. Enith for her part spoke to Gildor, curious to the gruff elf, but also acting on behalf of Thranduil.

After their fast breaking meal, Legolas retreated to the bathes to consider what had been shared. The Noldor used the bathes early before eating. Legolas was thus surprised to find Maglor there. Legolas was going to give Maglor his space, but the older elf called Legolas over.

Legolas slipped into the water besides Maglor, submerging himself. After a moment he came up.

Maglor studied the baths.

“Does it remind you of places you once knew?” Legolas asked.

“Yes,” Maglor shared his eyes scanning the cave, “and no. When we first arrived and settled by Lake Mithrim, there were hot springs near that we used to construct rustic baths. They were simple, unlike the ones Turgon built at Vinyamar. These remind me of those found at Eithel Sirion, carved into the sides of the mountain and into caves within where pockets of hot water carved natural pools.

“Elrond has fine baths”, Legolas observed, “perhaps his take more after Turgon’s.”

Maglor wasn’t comparing technologies, but remembering the familiar geographies. “Oh of course,” Maglor responded. “Elrond has surpassed what we did then, piping in the hot waters. These,” Maglor shared, waving his hand around taking in the baths, “remind me of the simplicity of the baths of Eithel Sirion. My uncle, the Noldor King Fingolfin did not allow the builders to spend too much time carving niceties. Cities had to go up quick that could withstand the wrath of Morgoth. Gone was our desire for the frivolities of Tirion, though I heard Turgon delighted in returning to such architecture in Gondolin.”

“I take it you did not get on well with Turgon,” Legolas guessed, “but that’s an easy conclusion to draw from the histories between cousins.”

“Indeed, that should not come as a surprise,” Maglor answered. “Turgon and Fingon saw things very differently.” Maglor cautioned,“Do not remember Turgon as a wilting flower. He was not. He desired to come to these lands. He as not unwilling as some scholars of today try to rewrite him. He was bitter for Elenwë’s loss, but he desired these lands as much as we did.”

“Strange, how you speak so intimately and, how shall I say it, as if were yesterday these people lived,” Legolas pointed out.

Maglor replied, his voice echoing softly in the cave. “I do not usually speak of those times. Returning in memory to those times, makes it harder for me to come back to the present. These last few days have forced me into memory and it is walking with me.”

“You hope to set some of that memory right,” Legolas remarked. “Did your wife not come with you?” Legolas asked.

Maglor whipped his head around. Legolas was brash, but Legolas was not intimidated.

“She did not,” Maglor answered shortly.

“Are you still bound?”

Maglor laughed at Legolas’ audacity. “For my part, no,” he answered.

“Did you feel her bond, then, after crossing?” Legolas pushed on.

Maglor was annoyed. “You have not propriety.”

Legolas grinned. “Not for nothing do they call us unwise and more dangerous.”

Maglor let out a laugh. He was going to have to get used to Legolas! Maglor looked to the caves around him, watching the steam rise, remembering those first days in Endórë. “I did,” he sighed, “but then it was gone. I assumed she ended it as well.” Maglor shrugged. “Our bond being severed would be best for her, but I cannot say with certainty.”

“Do you feel love for her still?” It was unimaginable for Legolas that such bonds be severed, but then again, he had not lived those times. Certainly, the Noldor were different in this regard, for did not Finwë remarry?

“I hope that she is happy and has found love,” Maglor answer. Shifting in the water, Maglor answered, “No. I do not love her like I loved her when we married. I’m afraid those of us that came here became utterly different people. Even the loves we had did not last the exile.”

Exile, Legolas pondered. He’d never heard the Noldor’s journey back referred to this way.

Maglor added to himself, “Except for them.”

“Them?” Legolas asked.

Maglor shook himself into the present, splashing his face with the hot water. “Pay no attention to me. I speak nonsense.” But Maglor remembered those he loved that had gone. Tragic were those days.

)()()()()(


	4. Departures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Seal Lullaby_ by Rudyard Kipling is used in the chapter below. The other versions are my own.

“Don't adventures ever have an end? I suppose not. Someone else always has to carry on the story.”

Bilbo Baggins  
― **J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Fellowship of the Ring_**

* * *

“If we are to travel by the path of the Enchanted River, we must make sure our hearts are light and our songs uncorrupted,” Legolas told Maglor.

“I am not so sure I can comply,” Maglor responded. He knew not where his song had gone.

“You must!” Legolas answered, insistent. Legolas was on this quest too, he imagined for reasons such as this. “We must kindle as much joy and lightness in our travels as we can. Once we cross the borders into the darker lands, our hope will sustain us.”

Maglor looked up at Legolas from where he was preparing his pack. “That might be an impossible task,” Maglor informed Legolas.

Legolas smiled brilliantly, sitting on the floor next to Maglor. “Leave it to me!” Legolas picked up Maglor’s sword. It was ancient. “If you threw yourself in the ocean, how did your sword survive?”

Maglor glared at Legolas, shaking his head at Legolas’ insolence. “Are you always so rude with guests?” Maglor shot back, annoyed.

“No,” Legolas answered smiling, “I am rude to one and all!” Maglor budged a smile. It was what Legolas was hoping for. Legolas added, somewhat contritely, “You are stone strong indeed. The call of the Sea is not one easy to withstand.”

“That is part of my doom,” Maglor admitted. "The sea calls to me, but I am not allowed to answer it. For the exiled Noldor to journey west, we must perish. The billow of the seas will not carry us home.”

“But you come to the wood on this errand, and sought me, King’s son, fair and, I have agreed, joined an heir banned. I do believe, the Sea, soon you shall withstand.” Legolas was overcome with whimsy, his words painting the delicate dance of his song amongst the breeze.

Maglor felt it tickle him. The ban against the Noldor doomed, forever to be cast ashore, away from those he loved. “It is so,” Maglor replied sadly, “I do not even know if my kin are returned. The doom is a mystery.”

Legolas sighed, deep into the song of the wood, willing Maglor joy, even with all the terrible deeds he knew Maglor committed. “We will travel with the enchanted river as our companion for some time. The river will fill you with joy, if you allow it, though I believe you also permit some of its forgetfulness to claim you." Legolas paused, he was scheming something.

Maglor raised a curious eyebrow.

Legolas conceded, “You will have to swim in it.”

“Swim in it? But does it not cast a spell and make one forget all, to wander aimlessly ever after?” Maglor did not trust the levity with which Legolas was painting the enchantment.

“For some, but before we march too far, you must do this, if I am to know you,” Legolas grew serious.

Maglor thought to himself, would it be such a bad thing to forget? But he still needed to complete one more task.

“Do not worry,” Legolas assured Maglor. You may forget for a time, but you are elven kind and the enchantment is temporary and gentle, not harsh and purposeful as it is with others."

“You know how to convince someone,” Maglor replied, half grunting.

“I am not convincing you,” Legolas retorted, “but simply speaking what must happen.” Legolas was not finished with Maglor yet: “Maglor Fëanorion, named the greatest bard of all time, how is it that you do not possess a song?”

Maglor was not surprised that this young wood elf did not give a tinkers damn of who Maglor was, was not walking on egg shells around him. “That is something most understand not to ask.”

“Why should I not ask what I see, what I hear? We of the wood know each other through song. How can I know you, greet you? Our trees cannot understand you,” Legolas answered, stringing a long more and more words to annoy Maglor.

“No one can,” Maglor answered.

“The river might,” Legolas acknowledged. Was he toying with Maglor, Maglor could not tell.

“I do not take this lightly,” Maglor hissed, annoyed with Legolas lack of seriousness. Legolas was getting on his last nerve.

“Nor do I!” Legolas’ beautiful features fell into sadness. “We will need your song if you are to enter those lands. I do believe the Enchanted river will help you find it.”

Maglor relaxed into the somber mood. “It long ago abandoned such faith.”

“And yet you think that by doing this errand, you might set some things right. That is faith,” Legolas pointed out. Legolas took Maglor by the hand. “Let us get on with this errand before you realize it is hope that compels you.” Maglor allowed himself to be led. Legolas was nothing but a wood elf. Maglor hoped this was just what he needed.

)()()()

It was a short distance to the path of the Enchanted river. Their gear was readied, provisions accounted for. Their path would take them along the Enchanted river and by many spider dens. They’d have to be cautious, but there were elves patrolling the region without rest. Otherwise the wood elves would be overrun by them.

“This is a good spot.” Legolas started removing his gear and clothing.

Maglor disrobed next to him. He could feel Legolas’ eyes on him. “Does privacy mean anything to you?”

“But you are elf kind,” Legolas replied, aghast at the Noldor’s modesty.

“Modesty, your virtues are lost on these heathens!” Maglor cried out, bantering with Legolas.

Legolas laughed. “On with it before I knock you in the river fully clothed.

“Together?” Maglor asked, hesitant to jump in, though the waters were a clear turquoise, like water come from the snows in the mountain.

“Take my hand,” Legolas offered.

“And what if a current takes us?!” Maglor asked alarmed. He hadn’t always been so fearful.

“The wood has eyes. We are not alone,” Legolas responded.

“Very well,” Maglor agreed.

“On the count of three, and if you do not jump I shall pull you in and it will not be as fun as jumping in,” Legolas declared quickly.

Maglor shook his head. His eyes were wide and his body trembled with nervous anticipation. For an elf long lived, Maglor was circumscribed in the manner of his living.

Legolas took Maglor’s hand and filled him with the ease of his song. Maglor saw the wood through Legolas, looked upon the river with a full heart and sense of kinship. _One, two, three!_ he heard Legolas, though it seemed he was already under water.

They jumped and were engulfed in the cold waters of the Enchanted river. Legolas did not release Maglor’s hand. They swam up and breached the surface. “See, that wasn’t so bad,” Legolas laughed, swimming in the river. “Do not worry, you have not forgotten to swim.”

Maglor allowed himself to float on the gentle current, swim back and float back. The cold of the water was invigorating. After some time enjoying the water, Legolas motioned to him. “It is time to get out.” Maglor followed Legolas to the edge of the river that became shallow. The sun lit a patch of grass just beyond.

“There,” Legolas pointed. “Let the sun dry us.” Legolas climbed out of the river and flopped down on the grass, carefree. Maglor envied him his freedom. The Noldor had sought freedom, once.

Maglor sat down awkwardly. He’d spent most of his recent years living amongst the trees in humble abodes, but he’d not allowed himself little joys, did not know how. Legolas knew what troubled Maglor was serious and dark, but refused to succumb to that. They would have more than enough of it soon. Maglor laid down gingerly, his back feeling the grass press against him

“They are eager to hold you,” Legolas shared. “Come relax, let the Enchantment come.”

Maglor watched the sun travel overhead. He drifted off into a light sleep, his eyes partially closed. He heard Legolas singing and he drifted off into currents of the wood, the nest of a squirrel, the trees reaching toward the sunshine.

Eventually Maglor sat up. He felt something different. He did not know how to describe it.

“Do you hear that?” Legolas asked.

“What is it?” Maglor responded looking around. “Your song?” Maglor guessed. Of course he could hear Legolas’ song.

“Not _my_ song,” Legolas pointed out. “Do you hear that lingering note? I’ve heard nothing like it!”

Maglor grew still to listen, afraid if he moved, whatever it was would be spooked. The note hung gracefully onto a repeating melody, like a lullaby of old. “I recognize this,” Maglor whispered, surprised.

“Of course you do, it is your song.”

Maglor was dumbfounded. After all these ages, his song appeared. What was that sensation he was experiencing? Perhaps Legolas was right and forgetting, for a moment, allowed him to find this note. Just what was he forgetting? Maglor sat in the field and listened to the note, the preciousness of this snippet of his song. Legolas came and sat next to him.

“May I? Legolas asked. Maglor intuited Legolas wanted to interact with his note. Maglor motioned for Legolas to try. “This is your father’s note,” Legolas supposed.

“My father’s note,” Maglor murmured. It flickered like a flame dying, but Legolas lent foundation to it, like tinder, stoking it. Maglor was a musician, understood composition of melody in the way elves did that connected them to Erú’s symphony.

Legolas whispered, “This is the melody of the wood. All woodland creatures share this melody. It is foundation to each and every one of our songs. It seems to me your father’s note is such a foundation for you.”

“As was my mother’s,” Maglor uttered, his voice lyrical and filling with power of his father’s note.

“Another note,” Legolas exclaimed quietly. “It is nurturing and always seeking to create something anew.”

A tear fell from Maglor’s eye. “My mother’s note, her song, she wielded in her hands, sculpting, creating, from wood, but mostly from stone.”

Nerdanel’s note and Fëanor’s flame danced in the sunlight, weaving in and out of each other until a third note emerged, gentle and timid at first, but also curious and frantic, falling, diving, looking for melody. “That is me,” Maglor murmured, wiping away the tears wetting his cheek. Slowly the melody of his song was building.

How long they sat under the sun Maglor did not know, but when he remembered his nakedness he saw the sun setting. His heart leapt in his throat, but all for not, his emerging song was burning inside.

“We must begin our journey,” Legolas spoke, reaching out to Maglor. Maglor stood with Legolas’ help and the two walked quietly back towards the packs, but the atmosphere was charged. There was a new intimacy between them. A new understanding had been forged between them. How could it not, Legolas was the first elf to witness Maglor’s song since the Second Age.

Legolas warned Maglor, “The Enchantment has only begun. By the light of the moon it will bear its fruit. Do not wander away from me or you will be lost.”

Maglor noted the elves in the trees beyond their path by the river. Like Legolas, Maglor had his bow and arrow ready. Strange, he remembered this, always ready for war. They had entered the realm of spiders. Maglor’s incipient song burned still in him, growing. The danger of the spiders pulled chords from the Song of battles long past, of skirmishes, and the darkening of Valinor. He was remembering, the Enchanted River had taken his penance, momentarily, the pieces of his song coming back together differently.

Legolas and Maglor did not speak much during this part of the journey. A few words of a type of mind speech were exchanged. Maglor did not know if the woodland kin did not have the same capacity or they chose not to use it. Thranduil was adept at it. Maglor would later realize that wood elves used Song to communicate in a manner akin to mind speech, and chose to limit what the Noldor named osawne to limited instructions in dangerous territories. Mind speech affected song and dark creatures knew the notes of wood song and could guess if something was being communicated.

But they were not to meet dark creatures in battle, not yet. Legolas relaxed when they neared the bend of the river. We will have time to rest here and lighten our mood. “Memory awaits us,” Legolas spoke, a greeting for the living things. “Ahead of us is one more spider colony and then we enter the Mountains of Mirkwood. Once we have done what we need to there we will take the easier path by the Woodman’s town and Rhosgobel. We will need woodland and woodsmen patrols to get us past the borders.” The Enchantment did not affect Legolas as it did Maglor

The night sky opened up above them and the stars shone brilliantly. “It’s as if they shine for us,” Legolas breathed.

Maglor found his voice in his forgetfulness. Maglor drifted into the restful state of elves. The first song of Maglor’s composition came. It was a lullaby Maglor composed under the light of the new moon long ago, for Celebrimbor, when he was a haunted young thing. He stirred from elven rest. The song was suffocating him, needing to emerge.

“What is it?” Legolas asked concerned, but having an idea what was afoot.

“A song, my song,” Maglor answered.

“You must sing,” Legolas insisted.

“But I do not know how?” Maglor replied, afraid and unsure of what came next. The enchantment was wearing off.

Ready or not, the melody within Maglor needed to erupt. It was the eeriest of sensations for Maglor, to experience song as something so alien. Maglor began, humming quietly to himself. Some of the pressure inside his head was relieved. After a time, Maglor decided he must get on with it, so he sang the song that needed to get out.

_Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us_

_And black are the waters that sparkled so green._

_The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us_

_At rest in the hollows that rustle between._

_Where billow meets billow, there soft by the pillow._

_Oh, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!_

_The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee_

_Asleep in the storm of slow-swinging seas.*_

The song ended. Maglor cried deeply and for some time. Such a sweet innocent song, but here, in the Third Age of time, it was a song of mourning, for the long dead. Remembrance. _Slow-swinging seas._ The waves billowed overhead. Maglor sunk to the bottom, but Ulmo’s wrath raised him hence, and the waves broke. He was broken evermore. _And black are the waters that sparkled so green._

Legolas was overcome by the beauty of Maglor in this moment. Maglor was bathing in the light of the moon. He seemed different, a youthful glow returned to him. It was the presence of his song. Legolas whispered, “ _The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us.”_

“At rest,” Maglor continued, his voice disappearing into his thoughts. Maglor glanced at Legolas. “I called it Seal Lullaby. My nephew Celebrimbor was comforted by it in those early days.”

“I do not know the sea. I am fortunate. I cannot imagine being sundered from the Wood!” Legolas admitted.

Maglor was moved by this. He’d believed middle earth so corrupted, beyond redemption, like him, but the sight of the sons of Dior in dreams moved him to believe. More than anything Legolas’ hope and beauty led him to believe.

“Hearing you speak,” Maglor shared, “I am more convinced of this task.” Maglor felt his Song curl around and embrace him. “If only to have my Song returned for a moment, I can say this is all been worth it. Yet I know my Song is returned to me to see this done.”

Legolas inched closer to Maglor. “Your song is bewitching,” Legolas whispered. Maglor was like a darkness that was intoxicating. His ancientness a well he wanted to drink at, but Legolas was hesitant. The danger of it was erotic, a line being crossed. He was thirsty, needed to drink all that was Maglor’s song. Maglor’s breath was shallow. This young elf’s thirst was drawing him, pulling him into life. Legolas laughed. It was as if the stars had come down to dance among them. Maglor was dumbstruck with this wood elf’s faerie. “I am a son of the wood,” Legolas answered in that way that wood elves spoke, crooked and wicked, jovial and coy.

“Yes,” Maglor answered, repeating words from before, but his memory was returned and there was a different fire present. Legolas drew Maglor’s face towards him, allowing his gentle woodland song to join in the symphonic drama raging within Maglor. Maglor’s song overwhelmed Legolas at first, but Legolas was brave and he danced in and out of the notes, and found Maglor’s melody. Legolas smiled at Maglor. Maglor felt a sense youthful anticipation having Legolas’ song dance with his, having Legolas so close.

Legolas leaned carefully to taste Maglor, his lips softly covering Maglor’s lips. He breathed in and took Maglor’s breath and Maglor, in turn, breathed Legolas in. Theirs was a gentle kiss. Their Songs merged on their own, their notes touching, tentative, and searching. Legolas’ kisses grew more passionate. Maglor responded, pulling Legolas to the ground, moving atop him. Their kisses followed the pattern of Song, crescendoing, pulling back, repeating melodies, until the climax of notes reach skyward collapsing back onto themselves. Maglor was intoxicated, reverberating with the green magic of the world around him and Legolas song that wound its ways around him, snaked its way down his spine and to his groin.

Galaxies circled over them, the strange, unearthly songs of life filling the vast emptiness of space with matter. The lovers found themselves in one another, traveling through time and creating a singularity all their own. Maglor was finding his song.

()()(

Maglor made ready to depart. He felt a lightness, that’s what that alien sensation was. His body more limber, his step lighter. Legolas came up next to him. “We must depart.”

Legolas placed a gentle hand on Maglor’s cheek, letting him know that what had happened between them was welcome. He shared a simple phrase with Maglor: “The night is behind us, now we seek the light.”

Maglor followed Legolas further into the wooded path. Legolas pointed out the names of certain species Maglor was unfamiliar with and spoke to Maglor about his mother, Feleth’s parents, and their settlement in the mountains. They had never journied, but did not take the term Avari, refuser. That was other people’s names for them

“They are wisest,” Maglor admitted to Legolas.

Legolas’ mind turned to Elrond. “I do not know Elrond well, though I perceive in him the same sadness wedded to you.”

Maglor sighed. “Elrond has a heavy burden, tying together many of the elven realms and realm of men.”

“Tell me of Ost-in-Edhil,” Legolas asked Maglor. “You must have known it. I saw a map of it once in Elrond’s study. Elladan showed it to me.” Legolas spoke with Maglor but his mind was also cast on their perimeter as they made their way closer to the mountain. Here were the warriors of the Mountain, elves at the edge of darkness, hardy and valiant.

Maglor glanced at Legolas from where he contemplated the waters of the river and their surroundings as they walked. “I knew it. It is a sad tale.” Maglor closed his eyes. Long had he refused to remember Celebrimbor’s body, a grotesque banner in Sauron’s army. “You ask me to recall the cataclysmic along with the beautiful.”

“Is this not the story of the Noldor? You will need to remember this well before you can face the dark things in those tombs.” Maglor looked away. He did not want Legolas to see the ruin in his eyes, not after what they shared.

“I heard the Noldolantë once, when I visited Elrond a few years back,” Legolas disclosed.

“I do not believe I will ever have the heart to hear it, lest sing it,” Maglor admitted, his anxiety threatening to collapse back into the prison of his own mind. “Tell me Legolas, who sang it?” Maglor asked, bravely, taking furtive steps to save himself.

“Erestor.”

Maglor smiled. The name was a balm. “He was a man of Maedhros, his second.”

“I did not know,” Legolas answered, sitting down to slow their journey and allow Maglor to reconnect with more of his story before they crossed into the Mountains.

Maglor collected some fallen branches to start a fire. He needed to feel the heat of the fire, in order to be free of it. “Erestor received me at Himring when the flames devoured us, tended me and saw me heal from those terrible wounds.”

“I dreamt of that time,” Legolas shared. “Under the enchantment, I saw more of those flames.”

“What did you see?” Maglor asked, starting a fire with his flint. It was fitting to have a fire and conjure it in memory: parallel universes.

“I saw Lothlann in flame, riders fleeing. I saw you standing in the middle of flames, but you did not burn.” Legolas intoned, his voice drifting into the fire, as a dream.

“Oh, but I burned,” Maglor uttered. “Moringotto sent out rivers of flame that devoured Ard-galen, but those fires are not what I endured, for I was blasted by the fire-drake Glaurung. His fires burn differently.” Maglor threw wood into the fire to feed it, watching it consume its tinder, much like he had been consumed. 

Maglor looked at Legolas. “All this while Doriath did nothing. That kingdom stood for too long and did nothing.”

Legolas understood Maglor’s bitterness. The children of Finwë paid a steep price, Legolas considered, thinking of the sacrifice of Aegnor and Angrod, of Fingolfin’s desperate challenge. But he also understood Doriath’s despair.

“You must imagine the word of the Kinslaying undid any good will Doriath would have for you. Thingol knew his kin across the sea were not soldiers, yet the Noldor were preparing weapons and armies, under the lies and discord of Morgoth. "I have seen the Kinslaying of Menegroth through my father’s memories.

“I am sorry,” Maglor admitted. “No one should have witnessed that.”

“My father did,” Legolas whispered. Maglor did not like the look of sadness on Legolas.

“He has shown you. It is good he did. You must know me as the Kinslayer I am, to understand what it is I must set right.” Maglor thought to himself, _and to not be repulsed by me._

Legolas looked seriously at Maglor. “You must tell me of Eluréd and Elurín. If we are to find them, I must see them from your eyes.” _You do not repulse me_ , Legolas shared through thought. 

Maglor spared Legolas a look of gratitude, answering, “I don’t know how we shall find them. Empty shells, torture bodies turned into dark creatures, imprisoned souls? All I know is that they are there and the darkness there binds them.”

Silence once more settled between them as each contemplated whatever thoughts needed to be held. The fire burned out and the ashes were dispersed. The two elves walked ahead once more. 

The Mountains of Mirkwood loomed ahead, and with the passing of hours and minutes they grew closer until the sound of a whistle made them pause. The foot of the mountains. Legolas looked up, his heart full. He was glad to greet the root of the mountains and the trees that dwelt upon the mountain sides. “It has been too long since I have greeted you my friends,” Legolas spoke.

Maglor breathed in Legolas’ enchantment. He allowed himself to relish in Legolas Song, the joy it painted in greeting his kin. The energy was young and ancient at once, Legolas’ song enmeshed in that of the wood, the mountain, the trees. It was a simple pleasure.

Legolas shared a radiant smile with the unseen elf.

A group of elves materialized from the trees. Their dress was simple, but their leathers were thick and their weapons mighty.

“Welcome son of the Wood,” one of the scouts spoke. The elf added, directing himself to Maglor, “Welcome, guest.”

)()()(

The elves climbed up steadily, following the path of the river that cascaded down boulders and carved its way into the mountain, the valleys’ its shelter.

Legolas spoke excitedly to Maglor, “From the tops of the Mountains of Mirkwood you can see the grandfathers, the first elves dancing in the uttermost North.” Legolas shared, full of wonder and faith.

“I have witnessed these lights,” Maglor shared. “They were faint when we first returned to Endórë.”

Legolas smiled sadly. “They have grown brighter with time. Too many souls given to light the way. But there is also hope in that,” Legolas insisted. “Our ancestors, in death, choose to guide us. Will I ever go West? I could not bear to be parted with my kin.”

“Kin in life, death, in memory,” Maglor contemplated aloud, the faces and songs of his brothers erupting within him. He had not imagined that this part of the journey would threaten a healing for him.

The group reached the top of the mountains, the dance of the Northern Lights revealing themselves in splendor. “More than memory,” Legolas assured Maglor, his voice filled with awe at the beauty of the natural world. “The light is what burns in our fëa when we are brought into being,” Legolas shared, the strange green hue of his eyes bright.

Maglor looked from the lights beyond to Legolas’ eyes. “I see it now,” he breathed, grateful for the wonder this wood elf was revealing to him.

Maglor followed Legolas and the other elves to a settlement by a large lake in a shallow valley. The air was crisp and clean. Legolas ran to what Maglor guessed were his grandparents, Feleth’s parents. One of the scouts offered to take Maglor’s gear. Maglor looked to Legolas and saw that Legolas had already rid himself of his gear. Maglor followed suit. “Thank you,” he shared with the quiet elf. The elf did not offer a name, soundlessly picking up Legolas’s gear as well. Maglor followed the elf with his eyes. Satisfied he knew where his items were, Maglor returned his attention to Legolas and his kin.

The group of elves were walking towards Legolas. Maglor felt a lump in his throat. There was a familiarity to them: darkness of hair, grey of eyes, and some with skin white as snow and others with skin golden hued and earthen. Maglor was reminded of his own kin in their early days.

The man, who had a strong bearing of the Second Clan, the Tatyar, introduced himself to Maglor.

“I am Amrúndil, keeper of the East.” The maiden, who Legolas held a striking resemblance too, introduced herself, “and I am Torneth, caretaker of this hidden valley.”

Maglor recognized the Second Clan’s traditions. These had not been lost in Tirion. Fëanor had been a jealous guardian of them. Maglor inclined his head and introduced himself in the way of his people, both hands held to his heart, “Maglor Fëanorion.” Maglor knew his line was not always welcome everywhere.

Amrúndil responded, “Welcome, son of Fëanáro, son of Finwë, clan brother to Morwë. You have found your home on middle earth after all these years.”

_After all these years_? Maglor was puzzled by Amrúndil’s welcome. Torneth added, “We always welcome elven kind not far removed from the times we awoke. We are young in the accounting of our people, born in the Second Age,” Torneth revealed.

Realization bloomed excitedly in Maglor, Amrúndil keeper of the East and Torneth, caretaker of the hidden valley. Maglor spun around and looked at the lake. Could it be?! Here after all this time. But he had believed it further east and destroyed after the ruin of Beleriand.

The light in his eyes betrayed Maglor’s inner emotions.

On Torneth’s urging, Legolas took Maglor by the hand. “Come,” Legolas spoke softly.

Maglor was speechless, trying to process what he was seeing before him. Legolas brought Maglor to the shores of the lake. “The waters of Awakening,” Maglor breathed, afraid if he gave more weight to his words, the vision in front of him would disappear.

“Cuiviénen, as you know it,” Legolas confirmed. Legolas sang Maglor’s song back to him, “ _And black are the waters that sparkled so green.”_

Maglor looked from Legolas to the lake and back at Legolas. He was in disbelief. “These waters are the pale blue of mountain lakes.” Maglor dipped his hand in the waters. “Cold.”

“Come night,” Legolas shared, “you will understand. Do you not think your words came from somewhere after all. These waters are deep in the very soul of you.”

Maglor shook his head affirmatively. He did not know what to say.

“Swim a while in them. You will be refreshed,” Legolas urged Maglor.

Maglor stripped his clothing away quickly. Unlike the river, Maglor was eager to submerge himself within the waters. He sunk down, floating just underneath the surface. There was a sediment in the water, typical to a mountain lake. It cocooned him and held him aloft in the water. It was peaceful under water. Maglor relished the minutes he was able to float. He came up for water and watched as other elves around him were swimming and playing in the water, casting furtive, curious glances in his direction.

Maglor looked to the shore. Legolas had food set out for them. Maglor emerged from the water. Legolas openly studied Maglor’s form. “I imagine Finwë emerging from the waters just as you did.” 

This saddened Maglor, the realization he could not share this with his grandfather, with his brothers. “Elrond and Galadriel,” Maglor asked, “do not know of this place?”

“They do not,” Legolas answered, shrugging his shoulders. “They do not concern themselves with the wood, nor take the time to know us.”

Maglor shook his head in disbelief. “Noldorin hubris.”

“They know this lake exists, but they do not fathom what its origins are,” Legolas added, but there was a teasing edge to his voice. Legolas could see Maglor felt alone, was overcome that he could not share this discovery with his brothers. “I will make love to you here,” Legolas pointed to the spot, “when the sun sets.” This would help Maglor.

Maglor choked on his bread. Legolas was bold! “There is not much privacy here,” Maglor whispered, unnerved by this woodland sprite.

Legolas laughed gently, like a leaf playing in the wind. “You are in the woodland realm, keepers of first traditions. Do you think Finwë slunk off into the woods to make love when the sand was so warm and inviting?’

Maglor smiled, “I think not.”

“You must rid yourself of your Eldar habits. We do not abide by them here.”

Maglor blushed, a sensation he’d not felt in so long, it seemed anew. Indeed the fire and lust in his stomach were all feelings he was unaccustomed to. He felt dizzy with anticipation. Maglor leaned towards Legolas, pulling him towards him. Legolas laughed into their kiss.

The sound of a fiddle interrupted their intimacies. Legolas pulled back, with a different excitement. Hurriedly putting on his clothes, he said to Maglor, “Come, make ready, we must go feast!”

Maglor was introduced to his first woodland feast. There was much merry making, wine was aplenty and the food was rustic and delicious. Rabbit stew with wild onion and carrots, seasoned with salt that came from further east. Roasted quail infused with the aroma of thyme, coated in the same rustic salt, eaten with rice, harvested from the lake itself. From the earth the elves pulled out what were small boars that had been cooked inside pots, wrapped with exotic, fragrant leaves. Legolas pointed out those came from the drier eastern lands, traded for in Lake-town. Maglor was reminded of Maedhros’ trade with the eastern men, the men of Bór who was remembered well, and of Ulfang, whose son Uldor the accursed, slain by Maglor himself. Maglor felt his song expand. There was sorrow in his memory, but also something of a resemblance to joy. He recalled the time he had reunited with Fingon and Maedhros to feast the coming battle against Morgoth, the Fifth Battle. Maglor experienced a moving nostalgia. He wished his brothers could see this, to witness the place they all came from. In another first of firsts, quite shocking to Maglor, he had waited thousands of years, to truly understand what it meant to return home.

)()()()(

The sun was setting. Legolas came for Maglor. The two walked to the edge of the lake. “Let me,” Legolas ordered, removing Maglor’s tunic. Maglor reached hungrily for Legolas, but Legolas pushed him back. “Watch,” he commanded instead. Legolas removed his tunic and let his hair fall out of its plait. Maglor hummed with delight. Legolas moved to stand near Maglor, their erections touching. “We will have each other.”

Maglor brought Legolas down covering him in kisses, allowing his hands to explore Legolas’ skin. It was like setting a fire. Legolas hissed, his own frantic search finding its match in Maglor’s desperate kisses. There was a kindling of sacred fires, the light of their joined bodies brilliant and soft, reflecting off the waters. Legolas was consumed in Maglor and Maglor was undone by Legolas search inside him. Their ride was hard, desperate, and all that it should be, each filling the other, but like all things it came to an end, subsiding, gently rolling like waves in the ocean, undulating, flattening.

Peace. They laid next to the waters, bodies tangled, resting together. Legolas listened to the sound of Maglor’s heart in his chest. “You make me feel small,” Legolas whispered, “and I am not small.”

Maglor’s chest rumbled with appreciation. “The Laiquendi long ago called us brutes. They laughed at our clumsiness in the trees. ‘ _Golda,’_ they would disparage us.”

“That’s one way to see it,” Legolas answered amused by his ancestors assessment. Legolas looked up at the night sky, looking at the stars over one of the peaks. “It draws close,” Legolas proclaimed.

“What draws close?” Maglor replied, getting used to these seemingly unconnected thoughts that emerged from Legolas, and understanding that, from a wood elf’s perspective, the thoughts were not unconnected. Maglor simply did not communicate with the wood and its kin the way Legolas did.

“Look,” Legolas pointed to the sky. “See how that star sits like a jewel on the peak?”

Maglor shook his head. “A check star,” he presumed. Star lore was familiar to the Noldor, a tradition at the heart of them as a people. Such check stars were used to find directions during certain times of the year and always marked the calendar and time for important celebrations and ceremonies of Eldar life.

Legolas spoke mysteriously, “We came here because of our dreams and because of both of our Houses promises. To see this done, we will need a little of a mother’s heart to help us along the way.”

Maglor was not sure what Legolas was referring too, but he trusted Legolas. Looking to the lake, Maglor surmised, “These waters hold something for us, don’t they.”

“They do,” Legolas answered. A voice startled Legolas, not because he was surprised to hear a song, but because of the song itself. It was Legolas’ grandmother singing a song. The air reverberated and the notes traveled softly across the valley:

_A wood elf does not give a heart lightly,_

_Not to an outsider of the wood._

_A heart given goes brightly,_

_Abandoning the heart of the beechwood._

_Take care in that embrace too tightly,_

_We shall mourn where once you stood._

Legolas eyes glowed their eerie green. “She speaks of us,” Legolas told Maglor. “This will not be my last journey. Oh my heart,” Legolas despaired.

Maglor shifted from where he had been dressing. “What does it mean?” But Maglor was a musician, understood the meaning of lyrics. These were not a riddle. “I do not take your heart!” Maglor cried out softly, his hand tenderly touching the others face.

Legolas looked up at Maglor with love, “Not lightly do I give it.”

“Then give it to me not, if this means I take it!” Maglor implored. “I cannot bear another sorrow on my behalf!”

“And what of love,” Legolas asked, “and joy.”

“Legolas, I…” but it was too late, Maglor had found love and it was Legolas’ heart now joined with his.

“I do despair,” Legolas admitted, “but that is not an evil. The unknown has long been a marker in my dreams. That it reveals itself now, through fire and water, is comforting also.” Legolas took Maglor’s face in his. “Hear my song and tell me if you find a sorrow.”

Maglor leaned into Legolas’ embrace. The woodland song was bright and jubilant, delighting in the wood, but also exuberantly weaving within Maglor’s notes.” Maglor understood Song. There was no sorrow there.

But they did not have more time to contemplate the grandmother’s warning. Elves descended into the valley from the surrounding settlement and approached the waters of the lake. The lake revealed its light, the bioluminescence sparkling like the night sky held in the womb of the mountains. Songs were sung of old, of Awakening. Names were called out, lineages remembered, ancestors songs performed: memory kindled.

“They are walking in starlight,” Maglor whispered, watching the elves walk into the waters.

Legolas led Maglor into the water. “And now our task is set in motion.”

An elf, unfamiliar to Maglor, skimmed the waters of the lake with her fingers, the bioluminescence shimmering as her hand carved a path through it. She threw water into the sky and the droplets hung in the air, suspended in the rays of the Northern lights that descended. The water was swept up into the tempest of the Northern Lights. She indicated for Maglor to walk in deeper with her. Maglor walked in reverently. The waters of Awakening.

Long ago the Fëanorians searched for the twins. Guided by the waters, Maglor traveled through time to Menegroth to find the song of the twins, finding also the songs of Dior and Nimloth. How could he have forgotten their frantic last notes? Perhaps their song would help Maglor bring the twins home. If Maglor was to find whatever was left of the twins in that dark place, he’d need to know their songs. Nimloth’s song was most potent. It hung like a melancholy wailing, calling out for her sons.

The elf reached a light, Nimloth’s song materializing into a flame. She coaxed it into a lantern. “You will need this,” the elf shared, handing Maglor the lantern. “In it is Nimloth’s song. They will come to her if they are there.” 

_If they are there_ , the elf said. Maglor was sure they were in Dol Guldur. Maglor looked up to the Lights. “Is Nimloth present among those lights?”

The elf shook her head, “Her song is but a memory contained in the lights. It will not last long, for the water loses its enchantment. Now go and keep our son safe. See it done, Maglor, son of Fëanáro,” the older elf commanded.

Maglor caught himself before he spoke, for what he was going to say was terribly ironic, but most certainly true. He managed to speak what he meant the most: “I swear it!”

)()()(

The air was thin and cold. Legolas felt his throat constrict. Maglor shared quiet words with him. They were not comforting. “It is like a tomb.”

Maglor forged ahead, crawling low on the ground. Legolas followed quietly behind. There were strange creatures flittering in the night sky. Legolas could not make out what they were, but their howls reached his insides, wanting to turn them inside out.

Maglor shared thoughts with Legolas. _Undead creatures of the Dark Lord’s servant. They are old. They might have had names once_.

The hairs on Legolas skin were on end. As much from the terrible things around him, but also from Maglor. Maglor was revealed. In this moment Legolas understood the words, the wrath of the Noldor. They had been words once in books, but now before him was Maglor. Alien to him. His eyes fire and brimstone of old. Legolas understood that Maglor was devouring himself from within to stoke his internal fire, a mere flame days ago.

Maglor witnessed the enduring fires of the first born in Legolas. To live and endure such darkness and yet he was still tender and whimsical. It was a bit of that whimsy that allowed Legolas to make way through and beyond the borders of the dark lands. His light, more like shadow was ethereal, slipping through the crevices of unthought that oozed from the accursed place Sauron now dwelt, but Maglor would not yet say that name.

Maglor let out a song of challenge. He had not come here to sneak in the shadows. And the shadows came. A figure of fire and black smoke materialized from within the tombs in the hill. It blotted out the color of the sunlight, though much light did not get through the endarkened lands.

Maglor stood in front of the large creature of smoke, its face familiar to Maglor. Maglor laughed in its face, “We meet again!” Maglor challenged the darkness. “Dark is not en evil.”

To Legolas the face was unknown and unfathomable. A trumpeting sound burst forth from it, knocking Legolas on his rear, but Maglor stood, his hair like a banner behind him. From Maglor came the most powerful sound Legolas could fathom. He sang a clear note and Legolas saw a mighty eight pointed star burning. The ages of the Eldar were summoned and their rage and fire erupted in that note, Maglor was letting Sauron know just who stood before him.

Maglor sang a song of regret and what once had been. The shadow figure countered with notes of Maglor’s betrayal, depicting in detail how Maglor had sliced Dior’s throat and left him to die. But those images had long been Maglor’s companion. Maglor’s song laughed in the Shadow’s face. Did he not see Maglor was on the edge of the abyss, was willing to jump into it. Maglor had already walked through the terrain of emotions that the shadow voice wanted to punish him with. Maglor battled the shadow back into its crypt, wave after wave of notes singing most devastatingly, of his heartache and regret and his sacrifice, for he had already given his life in the waters once, only to be rejected. What could this shadow have on that? It could not threaten to devour Maglor out of memory if Maglor believed this was already his end.

Legolas made himself small. This was not a battle for him. He was in awe of it, terrified, a young thing in the middle of ancient stories.

Maglor advanced, pushing the shadow back, the beauty of his voice a revelation to Legolas. He had heard stories tell of the Songs of Power, but to see and hear one resurrected across time was momentous! The shadow receded, a hint of fear to it as it slithered away and escaped to darkest depths. Only corporeal things remained, and many of those perished in the onslaught of Maglor’s song. Legolas knew what his task was. Maglor needed to focus to find the songs he remembered of the twins, Legolas protected him, killing the foul things that dared come for them.

Maglor held the lantern aloft. It shimmered in the darkness. He could hear nothing.

Legolas gasped. “Here,” he pointed out to a thicket of brambles. The light in the lantern flickered, but the song of the twins was undeniable, though it was weak and unsure of itself. Legolas hacked through the brambles, careful of his route. The songs grew weak, scared, the light of Nimloth was fading, but then, Maglor found them. Ages had passed and here they were. Shells of bodies imprisoned. They were the dead alive.

Maglor held the twisted bodies, made of tangled roots and bits of earth. He sang to them a lullaby he knew he was meant to sing for them, asking for forgiveness as he sang. They were parallel songs. One for the children that should have heard a lullaby the night they were lost, the other for the errant souls, needing to find a way back.

_Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us_

_And black are the waters that sparkled so green._

_The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us_

_At rest in the hollows that rustle between._

_Where billow meets billow, there soft by the pillow._

_Oh, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!_

_The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee_

_Asleep in the storm of slow-swinging seas.*_

| 

_Oh! hear thee, children, this night find us_

_Forgive us our pride, we were too keen_

_The oath, upon a time, did blind us_

_I found strength and hope in the evergreen_

_My song a call and challenge, it billowed_

_Oh, weary forgotten, feel the breeze_

_Wake in the shadows, reveal ache and plea_

_The storm will give way, bringing peac_ e  
  
---|---  
  
Maglor caught the flicker of their little lights in the lantern, the gentle roots that held them materially, turned to dust.

Legolas watched with awe. Maglor’s sadness and his conjuring of time pulled Legolas into his orbit. Maglor’s song was a gift to him, to the twins. What beauty, such enchantment, Maglor of the golden voice. Legolas wept. Maglor poured his regret and his heartache, his song asking for a forgiveness it dared not hope for. The souls of the children gentle, awoke from their deep slumber, found memory and did not forget the horror, finding peace in release. In their innocence they could not imagine holding Maglor culpable for all time. Theirs was a gentle caress, soothing and haunting. They searched for familiar light. They found it there, even in that darkest of places. Light and dark were not enemies. Only children understood this, but memory has a way of being forgotten with age, and the things named innocent, that are in truth the things of the simple world, are left behind, forgotten. For their can only be light next to darkness, glowing beauty out of gentle shadow.

Legolas spoke to Maglor. “Our deed is done. We must go before this enchantment diminishes and we are caught." The dark things were cowering in their pits, but not for long. Legolas led Maglor out of the dark place and into safer lands patrolled by elves and men. The men of the wood and Legolas’ woodland kin found them.

“We make haste, to the mountain!” Maglor spoke, worried that the little flicker in the lamps would fade. And the most wondrous of things happened, the woodland elves went with them, all joining in Song with Legolas. Legolas told Maglor, you must join in and lead the way. Maglor’s sweet voice merged with the woodland song. The elves were under his spell just as the little lights were, and onward they went until they made their way to the Mountains, up its steep sides and quickly to the peaks.

It was night, and the moon was at its darkest. The little lights grew tired. Maglor splashed into the lake. He knew what he must do. Gently he took the little lights into his hand and they danced there for a second. Lovingly he placed them in the water. The water whipped in a frenzy around them, the light of the lake embracing them. The little lights grew bright and from water became a million tiny sparks in the night sky. Their fëas traveled up into the currents of the wind, bright little stars making their own tempest path into the shimmering embrace of the billowing Northern lights. Maglor smiled. Eluréd and Elurín would find their way back to Dior, to Nimloth. That was comforting for him.

)()()(

Sitting next to a fire, drinking a strong tea, Maglor stayed silent. He did not speak to the men that patrolled the perimeter of their camp, nor to the elf that sat next to him. Legolas gave Maglor room to be in silence. He could not fathom what Maglor was feeling, where his thoughts were taking him. After all this time, ages between the loss of the children and their release, just a day ago, Legolas was having trouble imagining what Maglor needed.

“Call for me, if you need me,” Legolas told Maglor. Maglor looked up at him and nodded silently. Legolas went to help patrol the area. Upon the sun rise, Legolas returned to Maglor.

Maglor was standing watching the sunrise. He was thankful for Legolas. He said simply to Legolas: “It is done.”

“Let us make ready.” Legolas needed to see his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Seal Lullaby_ by Rudyard Kipling


	5. Endings

“And amid all the splendours of the World, its vast halls and spaces, and its wheeling fires, Ilúvatar chose a place for their habitation in the Deeps of Time and in the midst of the innumerable stars..”

**-J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Silmarillion_**

* * *

They were returned to Thranduil’s realm. Their task done. They were greeted with joy and cheers. Legolas stood in the heart of the wood. Maglor was just beyond him, walking towards Thranduil.

Legolas paused to greet his woodland kin. “Forgive me,” Legolas breathed to the wood. “Adventure awaits and I am young yet. Perhaps I shall find the sea!”

Legolas walked into his father’s embrace. “I have returned.”

Thranduil looked from Legolas to Maglor. “You brought my son home.”

“As I promised,” Maglor responded. Maglor was surrounded by the wandering company. Each asking questions of their friend. To Calmacil, Maglor spoke, “They have found the light. Did you know about the lake?” Calmacil smiled mysteriously, but said nothing. Maglor shook his head, frustrated and amused by Fingolfin’s second.

“It is done, father,” Legolas shared, secure in Thranduil’s embrace.

“I shall hear the telling of this journey when your spirits are rested,” Thranduil directed so all elves could hear him and give Legolas and Maglor their space.

“Someone always has to carry on the story,” Legolas whispered, his voice filled with the green magic of the Wood. Maglor would endure. Legolas needed him to. He’d come to love him after all.

On that magical night, by the lake, Legolas’ grandmother had sang to Maglor a warning to be careful with the love of Legolas. Maglor’s heartache was palpable, the hurt both deep and in his stomach, it was not just memory. From this warning song, Maglor composed a gift for the wood, and for Thranduil, a message within the song that Thranduil and Legolas would understand.

_The Noldor are known to love brightly,_

_Brightest still the leaf of the beechwood._

_The light seized, always contritely,_

_Surprised by love’s could._

_A promise given, not lightly,_

_Oh joy, I have found in the wood._

This was the only time Maglor sang in public for an audience after the First Age. The Wood would long remember and tell the incredible story of Legolas Thranduilion and Maglor Fëanorion, bard for the Ages.

)()()()(

Magical days were spent recovering in Thranduil’s realm, but the time had come for the Noldor company to leave. The wandering elves were ready to depart. Maglor was warring with emotions newly awoken in him. In him was more than memory. In him was the present, the song of the Leaf, his green leaf. There was a knock on the tree below, indicating that an elf wanted to come up. Maglor ignored the knocking. He did not have the patience to see another elf, too much was on his mind. It was a confused whirlwind of images and sensations. But the darn elf came up anyway.

“Permission?” Maglor cried out, hoping to scare away whoever it was.

“I am not seeking it,” a voice teased from below. Legolas! Maglor paused his work. A small smile formed on his face.

“Come up,” he directed, but Legolas was already climbing onto the platform.

Legolas spoke, seeing that Maglor needed to not take himself too seriously, “Your age does not impress me.”

“What does?” Maglor asked, falling into familiar banter with Legolas.

“Big things, perhaps,” Legolas teased, his feyness bubbling.

Maglor chuckled. Maglor seemed to be living different times in parallel. “You remind me of someone,” Maglor offered, holding out a hand to Legolas.

“Who might that be,” Legolas responded, curious, taking Maglor’s hand.

“My cousin Fingon. He had such a mouth!” Maglor smiled into memory.

“I think we would have got along.” Legolas smiled brightly.

To see him, Legolas, was light and youth and hope. Maglor was overwhelmed with guilt. He did not deserve such joy. Maglor’s melancholy was better committed to memory. “He smiled just so,” Maglor muttered.

Legolas felt the familiar sorrow overtake Maglor, but he had just the thing to pull Maglor out of it. “Did he smile when you abandoned him?” Legolas jabbed.

Maglor shot a look at Legolas. “Only you dare speak to me so.”

“Do you speak with many people?” Legolas retorted.

Maglor found amusement in Legolas. “Not many,” he admitted.

“Then I how do you know if people would dare to speak with you this way?”

“You are insufferable,” Maglor laughed, half annoyed. Maglor knew full well what Legolas was up to. Maglor allowed himself to be pulled into Legolas’ embrace and fell into a kiss.

Pulling apart, Maglor sighed. “I wish I did not have to go see Elrond but I must.”

“You must,” Legolas repeated.

“Will you not come with me?” Maglor implored.

“My father will not allow it,” Legolas reminded Maglor. “I will see you again, soon. Do not dismay.”

Maglor kissed Legolas’ hand. “I do not know how else to feel about it.”

“Trust in my love for you,” Legolas shared. “I am not tied to your past. I am your now and your future.”

“My future,” Maglor repeated, not convinced he deserved something to look forward to. “I have not allowed myself to live in the now. It is hard to do.” What remained unspoken was Maglor’s bond of old.

“You must,” Legolas insisted. “I will see you come winter. You will return for the Longest Night.”

“Until then,” Maglor swore, “keep my song safe, until then.” Maglor’s song, returned, but he dared not reveal it, not yet. Maglor had shown himself to Sauron and he would search for Maglor. Maglor needed the protection of Elrond and Vilya for a while, at least.

Maglor and Legolas said their good byes in private. Once the company was ready to depart, many of the woodland elves came to bid them farewell, their funny Noldorin cousins.

Calmacil spoke for the company, “This is not a farewell. We shall meet again. Faith keeps us.”

“The Wood remembers,” the wood elves responded.

Legolas watched as Maglor departed. He came a mystery and was leaving a friend, a lover. Legolas whispered, “Oh joy, I have found in the wood.”

)()()()(

Time passed. Gollum came to the wood and escaped. Soon after a Council was held. The One Ring was revealed. Legolas was chosen to represent elven kind, though Maglor was horrified by the choice. He wanted to keep Legolas safe from the horror he knew would come. But nobody was safe in Middle Earth. The war would come to all. It did. Maglor fought, with the company of wandering elves, for the wood. They owed their woodland kin this deed.

Middle Earth was saved, not by the elves of old, but by the most unassuming of all, Hobbits. But like Maglor, Frodo, Ring Bearer, would not find peace. When the time came for Gandalf to sail West, Frodo and Bilbo took their place on the boat, along with many figures from elven history.

Though Maglor desired to sail West, he was also overwhelmed with guilt for all that he left behind. He loved Legolas, but there was also a marriage once upon a time. Maglor could not believe that Legolas would be a partner for all time. That was too kind a story for a Kinslayer. Maglor was resigned to fulfill his bond of old. The cost was the waning of his song that Legolas had discovered.

Maglor remembered his parting with Legolas. Yet again a sorrow…

…Legolas eyes were wide. He was struggling to hold back tears. “Please don’t do this,” he begged.

“You must understand,” Maglor whispered, the ages of pain and anguish threatening to spill. “You must understand,” he repeated, “I am broken. I am not--”

“Do not say it,” Legolas interrupted. “Do not say it,” Legolas repeated grabbing Maglor’s hand. “I love all that you are and I am not so weak I will break as you imagine. Do not belittle me with words.”

“Legolas,” Maglor pleaded.

But Legolas was not going to let Maglor self-flagellate. “Enough,” Legolas spoke sternly. “Yes you are damned. But I say to damnation with all that. Maglor I am not your doom, I am not your people and I REFUSE to succumb to whatever damnation you feel you need to keep drowning it. Listen to me,” Legolas urged. “I am a child of what you name refusers. Your stories mean nothing to me.”

Quieting, Legolas whispered. “I love you. For me, this is enough.”

Maglor stepped back, he did not want Legolas to bear a burden too large.

Legolas closed the space between them. Grabbing Maglor’s hand, Legolas pulled him closer. “This is enough,” he said resolutely. “I did not face shadow and fire to see this world saved only for others.”

“But not for me,” Maglor whispered. He felt cared for, small even, but he had thousands of years of the doom’s punishment to contend with. It wasn’t that Maglor did not wish for happiness with Legolas. Beyond his marriage long ago, Maglor was unsure about his punishment, how he would be received once in the West.

“There has been joy, there is joy,” Legolas reminded Maglor, his lover’s eyes looking down.

“Look at me,” Legolas urged, “There is joy.” But Legolas was saying more than look at me, he was finding Maglor’s song, seeking the edges of its melody. Only Legolas could tend it. Every time Legolas did this Maglor would quiet, he was like a wild creature that was being tamed. “This is you,” Legolas urged, pulling the song into the air around them, filling the space with its vibrations, and the stones beneath them trembled and cried for they too were saying farewell.

“It manages to become unrecognizable to me,” Maglor answered.

“But it is yours,” Legolas answered.

“My song,” Maglor spoke into the song that had a new melody to it, one of the wood and the waters where his ancestors first woke. He leaned into it, relishing the currents, the manner in which song became matter. There was a melody he discovered in his youth, the rambunctiousness of growing up in a house of boys. There was the strength of Fëanor. “Father,” Maglor whispered, but he was tentative. This version of his song was sending him home. Maglor understood it would bear him hence, to the West. He did not want to leave Legolas.

“Do not recoil from it,” Legolas urged, not so innocent of the price.

“But at what cost,” Maglor revealed.

“Cost?” Legolas questioned.

“My Song fleas to the sea, seeking the straight road.”

“Alas,” Legolas whispered, knowing Maglor must depart, “the Sea shall take us all.” Legolas looked up at Maglor, his eyes yet burning with hope. “And yet it is all I could have hoped for. You will be more than memory! My heart grows with happiness. I would be more bitter to love you here for a moment and live the rest of my days knowing you faded to nothing but a memory.”

“Brightest still the leaf of the beechwood,” Maglor replied.

Legolas responded, “Abandoning the heart of the beechwood.” Legolas and Maglor understood that while there was truth to the lays, one could not fathom the entirety of what the stories held. “My grandmother did not understand then, that it was not solely you that would steal me away, but that friends beyond the Wood would call to me as well.”

“To the sea,” Maglor whispered.

“Your love, a promise not given lightly.” Legolas reminded Maglor.

“Joy, I did find in the wood.” Maglor remembered.

“And it was saved,” Legolas spoke.

“But not for us,” Maglor added.

“I linger for a night and a day,” Legolas shared. Their melancholy hung in the air.

“I will wait, the longest night and day,” Maglor answered.

Their hearts were heavy, but departures were inevitable. Such was the ending of an Age.

)()()()(

The west was golden. Familiar. The light of Arien gentle.

Maglor smelled the sea and did not recoil. It had filled his lungs once, almost drowned him, but he had survived those bitter days. But now, under the golden sun, the scent of the sea and all that it had been was not so bitter. The memory of his father, though complicated, was also love, so much love. “Ada,” Maglor whispered into the wind, remembering the tenderness with which Legolas spoke to his father. Maglor leaned into the sails of the ship. He was more frightened of meeting his mother. After all, they abandoned her all that time ago. He felt the familiar song of Elrond next to him. Maglor glanced at his foster son, a thank you in his eyes.

Elrond watched his stepfather smile. Maglor’s simple joy brought tears to Elrond’s eyes. He was not sure if any of the Fëanor’s sons had been reborn, but to have Maglor, here with him on this final voyage into the West was a great gift. It helped ease his weary heart that had left a daughter behind to a different death that he could not go to. Maglor had reminded Elrond that she would meet Elros, have a father in death, and perhaps one day, beyond the confines of the world, they would all meet again.

“Who awaits us at the end of the Straight Path,” Elrond asked into the wind from the sea.

Maglor wrapped unsure arms around himself. “I had a wife,” he said simply.

“Do you yet feel that bond?” Elrong asked gently. He knew this was a burden for Maglor.

“I do not,” Maglor admitted, and his heart ached for Legolas, remembering Legolas asking the same when they first were getting to know one another. What was he to do?

Elrond understood. “I believe you will not be the first elf to have arrived to Aman with another love in their heart. The Laws and Customs you left behind are too remade.”

“How can you be so sure,” Maglor whispered, uncertainty causing his voice to break.

A voice behind Maglor spoke, “If we are allowed to return, then it is so.”

Galadriel. Maglor and his cousin had not spoken much. They did not have to. Both had endured the march of time on Middle Earth. Both had suffered a penance, each in their own way. Galadriel was gentle with Maglor’s song, allowed her own notes to tend Maglor’s song, fill in the notes when he faltered.

Elrond spoke once more. “You will find healing there.”

“It is hard to believe,” Maglor admitted.

“Long ago we left, desirous of adventure,” Galadriel remembered.

“We return,” Maglor answered, “in search of peace.”

Galadriel placed a gentle hand on her cousin’s shoulder. “Peace,” she repeated.

The trio watched the sun set over the western horizon. The Hobbits slept soundly beneath the deck. They were the last of the Noldor to depart, the others having been granted a place on ships that left soon after the War of the Ring: the last exiled Noldor on Middle Earth departed. The stones would miss these kindred. Never again would the song of these warrior elves, once brash and haughty, march on those lands. Journies across the Grinding Ice, of battles with Balrogs, of Unnumbered Tears and Wars of Wrath, would become whispers of histories long past, and pass into myth, and perhaps forgotten. But across the sea, these stories would live on, until the ending of the world.

)()()()(

Before Maglor set foot upon the Blessed Realm, he saw one he was not expecting. She stood afar from the many loved ones waiting to greet the ship. Two young men came to stand with her. She raised a hand in greeting. Maglor recognized their light: Nimloth and Eluréd and Elurín restored. The song he had sung for them, a time ago revealed itself anew, but this time it was intimate and personal, a message just for Maglor: _The storm will give way, bringing peac_ e

)()()()()(

The sunlight shone on the time of his arrival, but he was not alone. The dwarf Gimli had come with him. Legolas’ heart leapt out ahead of him. They walked on the shores greeted by a multitude. The Hobbits had come to greet them, frail with the passage of time, just as Gimli was. Legolas was also greeted by his family, but he did not find his mother there. She chose to remain spirit in the wood, dancing in the Northern lights, remaining with Orondil, Enith, and Alwedeth, Nemir, all who still found joy in the wood. Perhaps she would be reborn if Thranduil voyaged West, his Sindarin heart desired him to sail, but not until he was ready. Like Legolas, Thranduil would build a ship; whether he would sail alone or not, was not yet known.

Of course, Legolas was unsure if Thranduil would not fade himself and become spirit to walk with Feleth evermore underneath the boughs of the great greenwood. Heartache. But Legolas could not tarry more in Middle Earth, the sea longing having claimed him some time ago. And his friendship, a brotherhood, with Gimli but moments from ending in Time. And there was also Maglor, but Legolas did not know what Maglor found upon return: bonds unbroken? His heart stung at the thought. Yet Maglor had taken a wife long ago. It was the most Legolas could hope for, that Maglor find happiness. Legolas would be happy to see Maglor thrive.

Legolas saw his grandfather, Oropher. He stood tall like his father, but this was not a vision shared with him or a portrait, but a breathing, living being! Oropher was restored to life, not too long a time in the Halls, after all. Oropher came over to Legolas and cried, taking him into his arms. “My son, my son,” he cried, “how I longed to know you.” Legolas’ Sindarin family stood behind him, waiting to greet and get to know Legolas, along with the other elves of the wood that had journied.

Legolas looked to Gimli and found he was enjoying his own reunions. Elrond was there as emissary of the Noldor, but Legolas could not glean a message from his eyes. Elrond was too moved with emotion to think of nothing but the moment.

There was much joy and feasting. Legolas’ heart was full.

“Boy,” Legolas heard Gimli’s familiar gruff voice. “You are unsettled. Are you not supposed to find peace here?”

“I am at peace,” Legolas assured his friend.

“You don’t fool me,” Gimli harrumphed, in typical fashion.

“Give me a moment,” Legolas asked his friend. “I need to find myself in the midst of all this.”

Gimli looked up at Legolas through his bushy eyebrows. “It is a lot to take in after all this time. Very well. A moment, but I’ll come looking for you soon enough.”

“Thank you my friend,” Legolas smiled.

Legolas walked on the shore, the sea a comfort, the waves breaking on the shore. The Sun was setting in the west over the mountains, the light of the sun glimmering on the water.

A song emerged from the dusk.

_Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us_

_And black are the waters that sparkled so green._

_The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us_

_At rest in the hollows that rustle between._

_Where billow meets billow, there soft by the pillow._

_Oh, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!_

_The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee_

_Asleep in the storm of slow-swinging seas.*_

Legolas turned and saw him, standing on the dune, his figure dark, the sun behind him. Legolas wanted to run to him, but the doubt in his heart halted him.

Maglor spoke to Legolas, after all these long years : “Brightest still the leaf of the beechwood, my love for you is hastened. Do not make me wait to hold you in my arms!”

“But, but,” Legolas cried out, “what of, what of-“ he could not say it.

“I have a bond. Only one,” Maglor revealed, “It was made in the heart of the wood.”

Legolas reached out to Maglor and in a moment, Legolas was tight in Maglor’s embrace. They kissed cautiously, not believing this moment was finally gifted to them.

Legolas heard Gimli’s rasping voice calling him from afar. Maglor’s eyes were alight with joy. “Gimli,” Maglor cried out. “He is truly here! Galadriel will be pleased.”

“Yes,” Legolas laughed joyously. “Come, come meet my family!” Legolas turned to return to the feast, but hesitated. He remembered the discord between houses.

Maglor smiled. “Worry not, we have made peace, though your grandfather was not keen on my love for you. In time he has seen it is true.”

Legolas was filled with peace and contentment. “It is most of what I could hope for.”

Maglor understood his sentiment well. “For the exiles, for those that fought the Wars of those lands, it is almost enough, and yet that seems more than what we deserve.” Maglor knew Legolas grieved the death of Aragorn, of Arwen, of the friends he left behind, but most keenly, the knowledge that perhaps he would not be reunited with his father, his brother, his woodland family.

“Hold me tightly. I feel I will vanish,” Legolas asked Maglor, feeling the strange weariness of the Blessed Lands that came with peace.

“Brightest of sprites,” Maglor whispered, “I have found a great oak eager to meet you.”

Legolas lifted his head from Maglor’s neck, “You have spoken to it?”

“I have,” Maglor revealed, lovingly.

“Legolas,” Gimli growled nearing the duo, but he was cut short, startled by Maglor. “Ah so it is you that has held Legolas up. I was going to give this one an earful. He’s been a bore, with all his sea-longing nonsense!”

“But not anymore,” Legolas retorted, pretending annoyance. Gimli, was for Legolas, what Legolas had been for Maglor years ago.

“Aye, not anymore,” Gimli agreed, gruffly.

“I suppose I must return to my own party,” Legolas said, almost an afterthought. To Maglor, Legolas asked, “Will you join us?”

“Gladly,” Maglor responded, his heart full.

The three walked back, Gimli small between them. Elven home at last. Maglor would be there when Gimli passed on to the Halls of his own peoples. Legolas would be there when Fëanor returned. To know Maglor as a brother, a son, allowed Legolas to truly know Maglor.

And perhaps, once upon a time, Legolas would be reunited with his own father. That the stories do not share.

-The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Seal Lullaby by Rudyard Kipling


End file.
